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!t   1^      20 


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1.25 

1.4 

1.6 

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► 

V] 


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7] 


V^ 


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1 

s 
1 

V 

l\ 

d 
e 
b 
ri 
r( 
n 


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IPX 14X 18X 22X 

\  [71  \  I  I 


26X 


30X 


12X 


16X 


20X 


24X 


28X 


32X 


tails 

du 
odifier 

une 
mage 


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empreinte. 

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dernidre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
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symbole  V  signifie  "FIN". 


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right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  §tre 
filmds  d  des  taux  de  reduction  diffdrents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  dtre 
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et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  ndcessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  mdthode. 


rrata 
o 


selure, 
id 


H 


32X 


1 

2 

3 

1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

POPULAR    NOVELS. 

By  May  Agnes  Fleming. 

l.-GUY  EARLSCOIJRT'S  WIFE. 

2.— A  WONDERFUL  WOMAN. 

3.— A  TERRIBLE  SECRET. 

4.— NORINE'S  REVENGE. 

5.— A  MAD  MARRIAGE. 

6.— ONE  NIGHT'S  I.IYSTERY. 

7.— KATE  DANTON. 

8.— SILENT  AND  TRUE. 

9.— HEIR  OF  CHARLTON.     (New.) 


'  Mrs.  Fleming's  stories  are  growing  more  and  more  popu- 
lar every  clay.       Their  delineations  of  character 
life-like  conversations,    flushes    of   wit,   con- 
stantly varying  scenes,  and  deeply  in- 
teresting plots,  combine  to  place 
their    author  in   the  very 
first  rank  of  Modern 
Novelists." 


All  published  uniform  with  this  volume.  Price  $1.50  each, 
and  Bent/?'ee  by  mail  on  receipt  of  price. 


BV 


G.  W.  CARIiETON  &  CO.,  Publishers, 
New  York, 


9-     t: 


'r 


THE 


■*»■  ■' 


Heir  of  Charlton. 


^  i«wi. 


BY 

MAY    AGNES    FLEMING, 

AUTHOR  OF 

•GUV  EARLSCOURT'S   W,FB,"    "  A  WONDERFUL  WOMAN,"    "a  TERR,B« 
SECRET...      ..„OR,.E'S     RRVK.O.,..      : ,     „,,     >;aRR.AGe  .^ 
ONE    NIGHT'S    MYSTERY,"    ETC. 


<^ 


NEW    YORK: 

Copyright,  1878,  by 

G.  /^  Carleton  &  Co.,  Publishers. 

LONDON:    S.    LOW  &  CO. 
MDCCCLXXIX. 

I  ■   ■  ! 


-1 


/  ,-■•       ■! 


-/L/ 


!  )  1 7 


Trow's 

Printing  and  I^ooKDiNniNc  Co. 

205-213    F.ast    \7.tk  .St., 

NEW   YOKK. 


\ 


CONTENTS. 


t 
i 


PART     FIRST. 

CHAPTER 

I.— Shaddeck  Light.. '''''"''' 

II- — Charlton  Place 

III— A  Fairy  Tale '  * '^ 

IV.— A  Man's  Letter...  ^^ 

v.— Before  Breakfast 

VL— After  Breakfast .'.*'" ^^ 

Vll.-In  the  Cool  of  the  Evening.' ^^ 

V^HL-By  the  Light  of  the  Moon .'.*.'".'.'.'."*"     66 

IX.— How  the  Game  was  Made ,]] 

X.— The  End  of  the  Fairy  Tale .'.'.'*.*.'."""     g 

XI — Shaddeck  Light ^ 

XIL— An  Evening  at  Shaddeck  Light. 1°^ 

XIIL-A  Night  at  Shaddeck  Light.  ....'*.' ^^ 

XIV.-A  Morning  at  Shaddeck  Light.' ....,[ ['^ 

XV.— Captain  Dick's  Wooing  ^^' 

XVL-IIow  Dora  Does  It        '^^ 

XVII.-A  Girl's  Letter  '^^ 

XVIII.-The  Days  Before...." .'.'.' .'.'.'**.*;; ]^^ 

XIX.— Captain  Dick's  Wedding. . .  *  *  * .''''' 'g  ^ 

^X.— Post-Nuptial.. . .  '   ^ 

XXr.-..  The  Girl  I  Left'beh'ind  M^  " "'' 

XXII.-..  When  Day  is  Done"  '°' 

217 


VI 


CONTENTS. 


PART     SECOND. 

CHAPTER 

T  -.T  PAGE 

1.  —  Vera 

224 

II.— A  Look  Behind 

•^o4 

III.—''  Love  Took  up  the  Glass  of  Time." 242 

IV.— At  Dawn  of  Day 258 

V. — A  Summer  Afternoon 270 

VI. — A  Sununer  Night 2S2 

VII.—"  We  Fell  Out,  My  Wife  and  L" 295 

VIII.--  O,  We  Fell  Out,  I  Know  not  Why." ./.''.  305 

IX.— Charlton  Place ^jj 

X. — Husband  and  Wife -gc 

XL— A  Cry  in  the  Night 

XII.— In  the  Dead  Hand 3^0 

XIIL— In  the  Dark  Hour 5^ 

XIV.— Tracked , 

374 

XV.— Trapped ^g^ 

XVI. — Shaddeck  Light 


I 


THE  HEIR   OF   CHARLTON, 

21  Storij  or  Sl)rtlri)ccli  Cijjijt. 


PART    I. 

w.,e  u„hand.om.."-M„c„  A.„  A.";  Nil";.        ""'  ""  """  """"•'  '»■  "" 


CHAPTER  I. 

SHADDECK    LIGHT. 

where,  except  now  a,ul  .hen,  a  .hirdng  seagull  °   A   hi,  fel; 

ous,  the  sea  '       '"*  '°"'-''^'  '""'"'  '^^^-^''^f- 

"She  won't  like  it,  that  is  a  certainty  to  be,™  with  •  "  so 
nmhismusn^s      "  An,1  if  u  u      ,    /"=!>'"  "''n .      so 

raise  the  dev  I      c;,,  '^  ''"^"^  ™"*"  ^"''-^  't  °"'.  sl'e  will 

jesy  and  ra   In  ^ '.^  "  •\"^^^»'"' ««"<!  of  his  infernal  ma- 
I    Lu"     T^^}'""  "  ""^  P"'"=ipal  anu,sen,ent  of  her  life 
I  suppose  ,t  ,s  ,n  accordance  with   the  eternal   fitn    s     f 


8 


SHADDECK  LI  GUT. 


things,  that  the   more  charming  a  girl  is,  the  more  utterly 
detestable  her  mother  must  be." 

He  raises  himself  to  shy  a  pebble  at  a  saud-marlin,  hop- 
ping near.  He  i-  a  slender,  well-dressed,  well-looking  young 
fellow,  blonde  as  to  hair  and  complexion,  and  wearing,  cpiite 
honestly  and  naturally,  the  listless  look  of  a  man  bored  habitu- 
ally by  this  wicked  world,  and  the  people  in  it. 

**  Let  us  see  what  she  says."  He  pulls  out  a  letter,  after 
some  search — a  lady's  letter,  long,  crossed,  and  in  the  usual 
angular  hand.  "  '  We  leave  on  Tuesday  next  for  the  North,' 
yes,  yes.  '  Afother  is  deliglited  ; '  of  course  she  is,  mercenary 
old  screw.  *  iNTr.  Charlton  speaks  of  his  son,  step-son  rather,' 
hang  Mr.  Charlton's  step-son.  '  You  must  on  no  account  fol- 
lovv  me  here.'  Oh,  but  that's  precious  nonsense,  you  know, 
and  after  eight  months'  separation,  and  St.  Ann's  not  three 
hours'  ride  from  New  York,  and  as  good  a  place  as  any 
other  to  kill — "  a  great  yawn  cuts  short  the  solilocpiy,  and 
exhausted  by  so  much  mental  effort,  the  thinker  closes  his 
eyes,  and,  lulled  by  the  warmth  and  the  wash  of  the  tide, 
lapses  into  gentle  slumber. 

He  sleeps  about  half  an  hour,  then  he  opens  his  eyes  and 
looks  about  him.  Presently  his  drowsy  glance  changes  to  a 
stare  ;  he  sits  suddenly  erect,  struck  by  a  peculiarity  in  the 
view. 

During  his  brief  "  forty  winks,"  a  little  island,  about  half  a 
mile  off,  has  changed  as  if  by  magic  into  a  peninsula.  No 
magic  has  been  at  work,  however  ;  the  tide  is  on  the  ebb, 
and  has  dropped  away  from  the  rocky  bar  that  connects  it 
with  the  shore.  On  the  small  island  stands  a  small  house, 
and  how  the  house  comes  to  be  there  would  surprise  him  a 
little  if  it  were  not  too  warm  to  wonder  about  anything. 
He  half  rises,  with  the  momentary  intention  of  testing  the 
solidity  of  this  new  path  which  has  risen  like  Aphrodite  out 
of  the  ocean.  But  it  is  still  sultry,  and  the  sea-weed  will 
probably    wet  his   feet,  and  it  is  not  worth  while  ;  so  he 


:* 


:1 

I 


?m 


I 


If  a 

No 
bb, 

.■1 

5  it 

^ 

ise, 

i   a 

, 

:he 

DUt 

nil 

'; 

he 

■': 

SIIADDECK  LIGHT.  9 

yawns  agiwii,  and  settles  back  on  the  j^rass.  ('oine  to  think 
of  it,  how  few  things  are  worth  while  in  this  world.  I'-vi-n 
this  trip  of  his  down  from  the  mountains,  although  the 
mountains  in  themselves  are  a  delusion  and  a  weariness  — is 
it  not  a  mistake  ?  It  will  be  pleasant  to  see  his  fair  corre- 
spondent, doubly  pleasant  to  outwit  her  mother,  trebly  pleas- 
ant to  do  something  clandestine  and  wrong  ;  but,  after 
all 

The  door  of  the  small  house  on  the  islet  opens,  and  a  fiL,aue 
comes  slipping  and  shambling  over  the  rocks.  Me  breaks 
off  his  train  of  thought  to  watch,  with  the  same  listless  glance 
his  handsome  blue  eyes  casts  upon  everything,  this  ungainly 
new  comer.  He  draws  nearer  and  stands  disclosed — a  long, 
lank,  tow-headed,  ill-favored,  half-witted  hobbledehoy.  He 
stares  stolidly  for  a  moment  out  of  a  pair  of  "boiled  eyes" 
at  the  gracefully  indolent  figure  on  the  grass,  then  is  shuttling 
on  his  way,  when  he  finds  himself  accosted. 

**  I  say  !  stop  a  moment.  What  do  you  call  that  ?  "  He 
nods  lazily  towards  the  solitary  cottage  on  the  rocks,  without 
moving.  "  It  has  a  name,  I  suppose,  and  a  use.  WHiat 
may  they  be  ?  " 

"That  air,"  the  lean  youth  responds  in  a  nasal  drawl, 
"that  air  is  Shaddeck  Light." 

"  What  ?  " 

"  Shaddeck  Light.     Can't  ye  hear,  mister  ?  " 

"  Do  you  mean  it  is  a  light-house — that  you  live  there  and 
keep  it  ?  " 

He  has  no  particular  object  in  putting  these  questions 
beyond  the  one  object  of  his  life,  to  kill  his  great  enemy, 
time. 

"  Mostly,  boss  ;  me  an'  the  cap'n,  when  he's  to  hum." 

"  Who  is  the  captain  ?  " 

A  light  comes  into  the  dull  eyes,  a  flash  of  intelligence  into 
the  stolid  face. 

"  Reckon  you're  a  stranger  reound  here,  mister,  or  you 


«  1- 


10 


SUA n DECK'  LIGHT. 


woiiKln't  ask  that.  Captain  Dick,  I  guess  thcru  ain't  many 
folks  rcoiind  Sluuldcck  lUy  don't  knuw  Cap'n  Dick 
i'frciicli." 

Up  to  this  point  the  questions  have  been  asked  with  lan- 
guid indifference.  ]iut  as  this  name  is  uttered  the  young 
man  sits  erect,  and  his  blue  eyes  kindle  into  swift  eager  in- 
terest. 

"Ffrench?"  he  repeats,  sharply — '*Cai)tain  Ffrench  ? — 
son  and  heir  of  Mr.  Robert  Charlton  ?  " 

*'  Wall,  I  reckon,  mister,  that's  abeout  it." 

The  interrogator  i)ushes  up  his  wide-awake,  and  takes  a 
long  stare  at  his  con.,  anion. 

*'  Antl  you — you're  Mr.  Richard  I'Trench,  otherwise  Caj)- 
tain  Dick's  factotum,  1  sui)pose  ?  Like  master,  like  man. 
Is  Captain  Dick  there  now,  and  at  home  to  callers  ?  " 

He  does  not  wait  for  an  answer,  but  rises  to  his  feet, 
flings  some  loose  change  to  the  lank  lad,  and  starts  at  once 
for  the  bar. 

"  Durned  if  he  ain't  goin,'  "  the  youth  remarks.  "  Won't  he 
spoil  them  swell  boots  though  !  City  chai)  with  store 
clothes.     I  see  him  yes'day  a  loafuv  reound  the  hotel." 

He  [)icks  up  the  pennies — the  backsheesh  is  by  no  means 
princely — and  plods  along  towards  the  town. 

The  shiny  boots  have  reached  the  bar  and  pick  their  way 
lightly  and  carefully  over  sand,  and  sea-weed,  and  sli[)pery 
rock.  It  requires  some  care  to  avoid  stumbles  and  wet 
feet ;  but  he  does  both,  and  stands,  at  the  end  of  fifteen 
minutes,  on  the  grassy  slope  of  the  little  islet,  ui)on  which 
the  small  gray  house  i)vjrches  solitary  and  wind-beaten,  a 
mark  for  blistering  summer  suns,  and  beating  wintry  rains. 
It  possesses  two  windows  like  port-holes,  and  a  door;  all 
three  hospitably  open  to  the  cool  and  fresh  sea-breeze.  On 
the  threshold  he  pauses.  He  sees  a  small  room,  the  board 
floor  scrubbed  to  spotless  white,  the  walls  glittering  with 
whitewash,  two  or   three  easy-chairs,  a  comfortable-looking 


SllADDECK  iJG/rr. 


II 


m- 


;ay 
)cry 
wet 
ecu 
ich 
,  a 

US. 

all 
On 
ird 
ilh 


lounge,  a  table  Uttered  with  books,  maps,  manuscripts,  news- 
papers, pens,  pencils,  and  bristol-board,  and  sitting  among 
the  literary  chaos,  his  back  to  the  door,  reading  and  smok- 
ing, a  man. 

"  If  that  »s  you.  Daddy,"  he  says  without  turning  round, 
"  I  will  break  your  neck  if  you  come  in." 

"It  isn't  Datldy,"  answers  a  (juiet  voice.  "I  suspect  I 
waylaid  Daddy  about  twenty  minutes  ago.  and  wrung  from 
him  the  information  that  the  master  of  this  hermitage  was  at 
home.  Idleness — the  parent  of  all  evil — suggested  I  slvxild 
come.  I  have  the  i)leasure,  I  think,  of  apologizing  to  Cap- 
tain Dick." 

lie  takes  off  his  hat,  and  still  with  his  afternoon  languor 
upon  him,  leans  against  the  door-post.  Tiie  strong  salt  sea- 
wind  stirs  his  fair  hair  whic:h  he  wears  rather  long,  a  strong 
contrast  in  that  respect  to  the  gentleman  he  adtlresses,  who 
is  cropped  within  an  inch  of  his  well-shaped  head.  Indeed 
they  are  a  contrast  in  other  respects,  for  "Captain  Dick," 
turning  squarely  round  in  surprise,  rises,  takes  out  his  i)ipe, 
and  stands,  a  tall,  broad  shouldered,  sunburned  young  man, 
wiih  a  pair  of  fine  gray  eyes,  under  black,  resolute  brows, 
mini!  and  muscle,  brain  and  body,  evidently  equally  well 
develo[)ed--(iuite  unlike  the  slender,  elegant,  city  stamped 
individual  he  confronts. 

"  Perhaps  I  ought  to  have  sent  my  card  by  Daddy,  with  a 
request  for  permission,  as  one  does  when  one  visits  a  show 
place  abroad,"  suggests  the  stranger,  plaintively.  "  I  really 
fear  1  intrude.  You  were  reading,  1  perceive.  I  am  Ernest 
Dane,  trying  to  kill  the  dog-days,  down  here  by  the  sad  sea 
waves,  and  tinding  it  consumedly  slow.  Most  things  are 
consumedly  slow,  if  you  observe.  Don't  let  me  interrupt  ; 
it  isn't  worth  while.  Being  an  inveterately  lazy  dog  myself, 
1  have  the  profoundest  admiration  for  industry  in  others. 
We  will  meet  again,  I  daresay.  I  stop  at  the  St.  Ann's. 
Until  then  ! " 


^ ' 


12 


SHADDECK  LIGHT. 


He  re]:)laces  his  panama  and  is  turning  to  go,  but  Captain 
Dick  interferes. 

"No,  no  ;  "  he  says,  laughing.  "Visitors  are  rare  birds  in 
my  rock-bound  retreat,  and  to  be  treated  as  such.  There  is 
no  hurry  as  far  as  the  tide  is  concerned,  and,  like  the  tide, 
my  industry  is  on  the  ebb.     May  I  offer  you  a  cigar  ?  " 

"Thanks,  no  ;  I  don't  smoke.  Curious  little  den  this  of 
yours,  but  a  capital  place  for  hard  cramming,  I  sliould  say. 
You  have  rather  the  look  of  a  hard  thinker,  by  the  by. 
Never  think  myself,  if  I  can  help  it — one  of  my  fixed  i)rin- 
ciples.  Wears  a  man  out,  I  find,  and  there's  nothing  in  life 
worth  wearing  out  about.  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  live 
here  ?  " 

"  Not  exactly,  but  most  of  my  days,  off  and  on,  I  spend 
in  this  shanty  when  I  am  down  in  these  parts." 

"  Ah  !  not  your  nights,  then.  That  must  be  a  relief  to 
your  anxious  relatives." 

*'  My  nights,  as  often  as  not,  I  s]:)end  drifting  about  the 
bay  with  my  friends  the  fisher-folk  ; "  responds  the  captain, 
good-humoredly.  "  1  am  an  amphibious  animal.  I  suppose  ; 
I  thrive  best  in  salt  water." 

Mr.  Ernest  Dane  regards  him  with  languid  interest. 

"  Your  days  in  study — Spanish,  I  perceive — and  your 
nights  in  fishing.  You  never  sleej)  if  you  can  help  it,  I  jjre- 
sume.  But  don't  you  find  the  everlasting  swish-swash  of  the 
sea,  down  there  in  the  rocks,  ratlier  maddening  ?  '  What 
are  the  wild  waves  saying  ? '  and  so  on,  something  of  a  draw- 
back to  close  application  ?  " 

*'  1  never  hear  it,"  answers  Captain  Ffrench.  "  With  my 
pipe  and  my  traps  here,  and  my  solitude,  you  behold  in  me, 
Mr.  Dane,  that  vara  avis,  a  perfectly  happy  man." 

He  stooi)s  to  gather  up  a  quantity  of  papers  and  memo- 
randa that  have  fallen,  and  replaces  them  with  care.  Order 
enters  largely  into  the  phrenological  development  of  the 
student  of  Spanish,  as  may  be  noted  by  the  perfect  neatness 


J .^ 


1 


iny 
hie, 

no- 
li er 
Ihe 


SHADDECK  LIGHT. 


13 


of  everything  in  the  bare  little  room.  As  he  assorts  his 
papers,  his  visitor  rises  and  crosses  suddenly  to  the  chimney- 
piece,  over  which  hangs  the  only  picture  on  the  walls.  It 
is  unfranied  ;  a  head  in  colored  chalks — a  woman's  head, 
of  course ;  a  low-browed,  fair-faced,  serene-eyed,  sniiling- 
niouthed  woman  ;  and  underneath,  in  pencil,  "  Mademoiselle 
,  New  Orleans,  May  — ,  1861." 

Mr.  Dane  produces  an  eye-glass — his  handsome  blue  eyes 
are  short-sighted — and  looks  at  this  picture.  Then  he  turns 
and  looks  at  Captain  Dick,  a  look  so  keen,  so  suspicious,  so 
swift,  so  full  of  fire,  that  for  one  second  it  alters  his  whole 
expression.  For  one  second  only — when  the  other  glances 
up  from  his  manuscripts,  the  habitually  negligent  and  indif- 
ferent air  returns. 

"  A  pretty  face,"  he  says,  lightly.  "  You  add  artistic  ten- 
dencies to  your  other  virtues,  I  perceive.  1  don't  know,  of 
course,  but  it  strikes  me  1  have  seen  a  face  very  like  that 
somewhere." 

"  Very  likely.  I  have  a  portfolio  about  in  some  corner, 
if  you  care  for  that  sort  of  thing.  Do  you  sketch  ?  There 
are  some  rather  good  views  here  and  there  in  the  vicinity  of 
St.  Ann's  and  Shaddeck  Bay." 

"  My  dear  fellow,  I  do  nothing — nothing — absolutely  and 
utterly  nothing.  I  am  ashamed  of  myself.  I  can  recollect 
no  time  in  which  I  was  not  ashamed  of  myself.  1  have  suf- 
fered from  chronic  remorse  for  my  laziness  ever  since  I  had 
a  conscience.  But  all  the  same,  I  never  reform.  I  don't 
sui)pose  I  ever  shall.  I  don't  sketch,  1  don't  read,  I  don't 
smoke  ;  1  have  no  aims,  no  mission,  no  sphere.  The  world 
goes  round  and  I  go  round  with  it.  1  drift  with  the  tide, 
and  am  bound  to  no  port.  And,  apropos  of  tides,  the  tide 
of  our  affairs  will  soon  be  the  flood  again,  and  our  peninsula 
once  more  an  island.  So  I  think  I'll  make  off.  I  see  you 
have  no  boat  here,  so  I  conclude  it  is  nothing  unusual  for 
you  to  be  oceanbound." 


V'. 


\  I 


14 


SHAD  DECK  LIGHT. 


*'  A  boat  is  one  of  the  necessities  of  my  existence,"  Cap- 
tain Dick  yays.  "  If  yoli  are  going,  I  believe  I  will  go  also. 
I  am  clue  at  the  house  before  six." 

"  Meaning  by  the  house,  the  residence  of  the  Honorable 
Robert  Charlton  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  you  know.  Yes,  Mr.  Charlton  is  my  step-father  ; 
and,  by  the  way,  as  he  is  the  soul  of  hospitality,  I  think  I 
may  tender  you  an  invitation  in  his  naiKC.  You  must  find 
time  hang  ratlier  heavily,  I  should  say.  at  St.  Ann's." 

Yes,  Mr.  Dane  admits  with  a  gentle  sigh.  To  find  time 
hang  heavily  is,  he  regrets  to  say,  one  of  the  fixed  conditions 
of  his  existence.  It  is  the  penalty,  he  supposes,  life  exacts 
from  perfectly  idle  men.  Very  many  thanks  for  Captain 
Dick's  friendly  offer,  which  at  some  future  day,  he  hope^.  to 
avail  himself  of  Then  he  lifts  his  hat  and  turns  towards  St. 
Ann's  while  Captain  Dick,  whistling  as  he  goes,  gets  over 
the  ground  with  long  strides,  in  a  directly  opposite  course. 

The  sun  is  setting.  The  sea  lies  smooth  and  sparkling 
below,  the  sky  spreads  yellow,  tieecy,  rose-flushed  above, 
the  fields  swell  green  and  golden  far  away,  the  beach 
stretches  white  and  glistening  near. 

Mr.  Ernest  Dane  turns  and  watches  his  late  companion 
out  of  sight,  a  stalwart,  strong  figure,  clearly  outlined  against 
the  western  red  light,  with  something  unmistakably  military 
in  the  square  shoulders  and  upright  poise  of  the  head,  some- 
thing bright  and  breezy  in  air,  and  eye,  and  frankly  ringing 
voice,  something  resolute  and  decided  in  the  very  echo  of 
the  firm,  quick  footsteps.  Mr.  Dane's  face  darkens,  as  he 
watches,  and  his  handsome,  bored,  blonde  countenance  set- 
tles for  a  moment  into  as  darkly  earnest  an  expression  as 
though  he  were  a  man  with  a  purpose  in  life  which  that  other 
man  had  crossed.  It  is  but  a  moment.  •  He  turns  away 
with  a  slight,  contemptuous  shrug,  just  as  the  tall  captain 
wheels  round  a  bend  in  the  white  road,  and  disappears. 


CHARLTON  PLACE. 


15 


CHAPTER   II. 


CHARLTON   PLACE. 


lO  of 
Is  he 

set- 
Ill  as 

ther 
[way 
[tain 


handsome  girl,  and  yet  at  first  sight  there 
who  do  not  think  so.  It  is  the  sort  of 
owes  nothing  to  bright  coloring  of  hair 
to  dress,  and  less  to  ornament.  The 
. absolutely  without  a  tinge  of  warmer 
tint,  either  gold  or  russet,  the  complexion,  clear  and  health- 
ful, is  colorless ;  the  eyes  like  a  fawn's,  soft,  thoughtful, 
l)eculiarly  gentle ;  the  mouth  at  once  firm  and  sweet,  the 
profile  nearly  perfect.  Above  middle  height,  with  a  figure 
well  rounded  and  ilexible,  hands  long,  tai)ering,  beautiful ; 
dres  d  in  black  silk  by  no  means  new,  but  well-fitting,  a 
touch  of  fine  lace,  and  a  coral  pin  at  the  throat — that  is  Elea- 
nor Charlton. 

She  stands  at  the  open  window  and  looks  out ;  a  wonder- 
ful liglit  of  pleased  admiration  in  the  hazel  eyes.  Honey- 
suckle and  sweet-smelling  roses  cluster  all  about  the  case- 
ment, and  fill' the  sweet  summer  warmth  with  perfume.  A 
sea  of  fluttering  green  leaves  and  brilliant  flowers  spreads  out 
just  beneath,  and  far  beyond,  with  the  hot,  yellow  bla/e  of 
the  July  sun  upon  it,  another  sea,  all  a-sparkle  as  if  sown  with 
stars. 

"  How  pretty  !  how  pretty  !  "  she  says,  a  smile  of  pleasure 
dawning  on  her  lips ;  "  how  pretty  it  all  is  !  How  hap|)y 
one  unght  be — could  be — in  such  a  home  as  this." 

The  smile  dies  away,  and  a  faint  sigh  comes  instead. 
For  all  the  home  Miss  Charlton  knows,  has  known  for  the 
past  eight  years,  is  the  hopeless  home  of  a  city  boarding- 
house. 

A  breeze  comes  up   from   Shaddcck   Bay  and  flutters  the 


L     I 


i6 


CHARLTON  PLACE. 


1  I 
:  I 


honeysuckle  bells,  and  swings  the  pink  clusters  of  the  roses. 
A  bee  staggers  heavily  by,  drunk  with  sweets,  booming  drow- 
sily. Little  white-sailed  boats  glide  about  over  the  shining 
water,  a  door  shuts  somewliere  in  the  sleepy  afternoon  still- 
ness of  the  house.  Then  there  is  a  tap,  and  before  Miss 
Charlton  has  time  to  say  come  in,  the  tajiper  comes  in  and 
l)roves  to  be  Mrs.  Charlton's  manniia,  a  lady  of  the  fat  and 
fifty  order,  with  a  hooked  nose,  a  double  chin,  a  thin,  com- 
press<^  \  mouth,  a  hard,  cold  eye,  a  false  front,  false  teeth, 
a  good  deal  of  gold  jewelry  on  hands  and  bosom — the  well- 
preserved  remains  of  a  "fine  woman."  • 

*'  Eleanor,"  she  says,  abruptly,  and  turning  the  key  in  the 
door. 

"  Yes,  mother." 

Miss  Charlton's  voice  is  as  gentle  as  her  eyes,  as  sweet  as 
her  smile.  Mrs.  Charlton's,  on  the  contrary,  is  of  a  rasping 
and  astringent  quality,  that  leaves  an  im[)ression  as  bitters  in 
the  mouth. 

"  I  wish  to  speak  with  you,  seriously,  my  dear,  v-e-r-y 
seriously,"  says  Mrs.  Charlton,  taking  a  chair,  folding  her 
hands,  and  fixing  her  glimmering  eyes  on  her  daughter's  face. 

"I  have  just  been  talking  to  Mr.  Charlton,  ancj  he  says 

Sit  down. "  \iP^ 

She  pushes  a  chair  up,  and  P^leanor  obeys.  A  look  of  weari- 
ness comes  over  her  fair  face,  as  if  the  ordeal  of  being 
"  v-e-r-y  seriously  "  spoken  to,  was  no  new  one  and  no  pleas- 
ant one. 

"  As  1  inferred  from  the  first,  my  dear,"  begins  Mrs.  Charl- 
ton, with  unction,  "  Mr.  Charlton  had  a  motive  in  sending 
for  us  to  visit  him,  other  than  that  he  set  forth.  People  may 
remember  their  deceased  cousin's  widow  and  or[)han,  and 
blood  may  be  thicker  than  water ;  but,  as  a  general  thing, 
they  don't  send  several  hundred  miles  for  these  relatives  to 
visit  them,  without  some  other  motive  than  pure  benevolence 
Deing  on  the  cards.     That  something  else  1  have  discovered. 


CHARLTON  PLACE. 


1/ 


!harl- 

hding 

niav 

and 

U  to 
Mice 
tied, 


and  its  name  is "     Mrs.  Charlton  pauses  in  triumphant 

exjiectation,  and  Miss  Charlton  smiles. 

"  Yes,  mother,  I  know  your  persi)icacity.     It's  name  is " 

"  Richard  Caryl  Ffrcnch." 

Miss  Charlton  lifts  her  pretty  eyebrows,  but  she  is  not  sur- 
prised. 

"  Captain  Ffrench — his  step-son  ?  Well,  that  is  very  natu- 
ral, mother,  only  I  don't  perceive  the  connection.  What 
have  we  to  do,  what  has  our  coming  to  do,  with  this  modern 
Sir  Philip  Sidney?" 

"  My  dear,  everything,  everything !  "  Mrs.  Charlton 
looks  about  her,  glances  out  of  the  window,  lowers  her  voice 
to  a  gunpowder-plot  whisper,  "  Mark  my  words,  Eleanor, 
Robert  Charlton  has  sent  for  you  with  one  purpose — only 
one — to  marry  you  to  Richard  Ffrench." 

"  Mother !  " 

"  It  is  perfectly  true.  He  did  not  say  so  in  so  many 
words,  of  course.  How  could  he  ?  All  the  same,  that  is  the 
hidden  meaning  of  our  invitation  here.  And,  Eleanor,  mind 
what  I  am  saying,  it  is  the  best  chance  you  have  ever  had, 
ever  will  have.     I  look  to  you  not  to  thwart  Mr.  Charlton." 

"But,  mother " 

"You  can  raise  no  obstacle — none  at  all.  When  you 
dismissed  Mr.  Gore  a  year  ago,  you  said  he  was  notoriously 
dissipated,  and  I  accepted  that  reason,  although  I  failed  to 
perceive  then,  and  do  still,  what  a  little  wildness  in  a  man 
with  a  million  can  signify.  But  here  it  is  difterent.  Captain 
Ffrench,  from  what  I  can  hear,  is  all  the  most  exacting 
could  desire  ;  handsome,  young,  brave,  clever — everything. 
I  look  to  you,  Eleanor,  to  do  all  you  can  to  please  Captain 
Ffrench." 

"Oh!  mother,  mother,  hush  !  "  Her  color  has  flushed, 
then  faded  ;  a  look  of  pain,  of  shame  contracts  her  brows  ; 
htr  hands  lock  and  unlock  nervously.  "  You  are  always 
dreaming,    always    talking,   always   hoping   for    this.      Why 


r    I  : 

I    i 


I,       I 


rt' 


i8 


CHARLTON  PLACE. 


should  Mr.  Charlton  have  meant  so  absurd  a  thing  ?     Cap-,  ^ 
tain  Ffrench  has  no  need  to  have  a  wife  chosen  for  him,  and 
thrown  at  his  head.      If  he  is  all  you  say,  is  he  likely  to  let 
any  one  choose  for  him  ?    And  besides " 

"Well,  Eleanor,  and  besides?"  says  Mrs.  Charlton,  aus-; 
tcrely  ;  but  Klcanor  rises,  biting  her  lip  and  flushing  guiltily.' 
She  goes  back  to  the  window,  where  the  roses  hang  and  the 
woodbine  clambers,  just  as  sweetly  as  half  an  hour  ago,  but 
the  soft  eyes  are  only  full  of  impatient,  impotent  pain  now. 

"There  can  be  no  'besides,'"  says  her  mother,  still  more 
austerely.  "And  I  have  made  no  mistake  in  Mr.  Charlton's 
meaning.  It  is  not  my  habit  to  make  mistakes.  It  is  Mr. 
Charlton's  wish  that  you  should  marry  his  step-son,  who  is  a 
little,  just  a  little,  hair-brained  about  exploring  and  soldiering, 
and  liable  to  run  away  at  a  moment's  notice." 

"  And  so  is  to  have  a  wife  tied  to  him  as  a  sort  of  drag- 
anchor,  whether  he  will  or  no.  Well,  mother,  I  decline  be- 
ing that  drag-anchor." 

"  You  will  do  exactly  as  you  please,  of  course,"  retorts  her 
mother,  angrily  ;  "  as  you  always  do.  But,  remember  this, 
if  you  are  perverse,  if  you  take  to  riding  any  of  your  ex- 
tremely high  horses  here,  if  you  refuse  the  heir  of  this  noble 
estate " 

"Mother,  listen  to  me,"  Eleanor  Charlton  says,  and  puts 
her  hand  with  a  tired  gesture  to  her  head  ;  "  do  not  let  us 
quarrel — oh  !  do  not  this  very  first  day.  What  you  ho[)e 
for  cannot  be  ;  there  must  be  a  mistake.  You  know — his 
letter  of  invitation  said  so — that  he  has  also  invited  those 
two  young  ladies  in  New  York,  his  distant  relatives,  as  well 
as  we " 

"  That  but  confirms  my  suspicion,  my  certainty,"'  inter- 
rupts her  mother,  calmly.  "  Richard  Ffrench  is  to  have  his 
choice — all  in  the  family.  Very  naturally  this  great  fortune 
is  to  be  kept  with  the  Charlton  blood,  if  possible,  and  in 
your  veins  and  in  theirs  alone  does  it  run.     Richard  Ffrench 


^ 


CHARLTON  PLACE. 


IQ 


puts 

let  us 

hope 

— his 

those 

well 

Inter- 
[e  his 
Kune 
kl  in 
mch 


^ 


is  to  choose  between  you.  But  you  are  first  in  the  field,  and 
to  an  impressionable  young  man  fresh  from  wild  Northern 
regions " 


"  Mother,  hush  !  I  cannot  bear  it,"  Eleanor  cries  out. 
•'Oh  !  how  many  times  have  I  listened  to  this;  how  many 
times  have  you  not  tried  to  sell  me  to  the  highest  bidder.  How 
many  times  have  I  not  been  shamed,  shamed  to  the  heart, 
by  the  looks  men  gave  me,  after  talking  to  you.  Let  me 
alone,  mother.  I  will  work  for  you,  I  will  give  you  all  I 
earn,  I  will  never  complain  ;  but  for  the  sake  of  our  com- 
mon womanhood,  do  not  make  me  blush  again  before  the 
master  and  son  of  this  house.  And  hear  me  once  for  all — I 
will  work  until  I  drop  dead  from  work,  I  will  lie  down  and 
die  of  starvation,  before  I  marry  any  man  for  his  money,  and 
his  money  alone." 

"  Hush-h ! "  says  Mrs.  Charlton,  "  hush,  for  Heaven's 
sake!"  There  has  been  a  rap  at  the  door,  now  there  is 
another.  She  smooths  her  angry  face,  rises,  opens  it,  and 
sees  a  trim  and  smiling  housemaid. 

"  Master's  compliments,  ma'am,  and  any  time  you  and 
Miss  Charlton  is  ready,  he  is  waiting  to  show  you  through 
the  grounds." 

''Thank  you,"  Mrs.  Charlton  responds,  suavely.  "Tell 
Mr.  Charlton  we  will  be  down  in  one  moment.  Eleanor, 
my  love,  if  you  are  quite  ready  we  will  not  keep  our  kind 
host  waiting." 

Ik  4c  4c  ik  t|(  4t  >!< 

The  rose  light  of  the  sunset  has  faded  out  into  opal  and 
gray,  the  cool  of  evening  has  fallen  upon  the  world,  at  white 
heat  all  day,  when  Richard  Ffrench  turns  into  the  ponderous 
iron  gateway,  between  its  couchant  lions,  and  goes  up  the 
long,  leafy,  tree-shaded  drive.  The  old  elms  and  hemlocks 
meet  overhead,  and  make  green  gloom  even  at  noonday. 
It  is  deepest  twilight  beneath  their  arching  vault  now.  He 
emerges  in  front  of  the  house,  a  large,  quaint,  red  brick  struc- 


20 


CHARLTON  PLACE. 


'i!|i 


ture,  set  in  a  great  slope  of  velvety  turf  and  lawn,  with  wide 
halls,  and  bay-windows,  and  open  doors.  Pjiilliant  beds  of 
gladioli,  geraninni,  verbena,  heliotro[)e,  and  pansy  crop  up 
everywhere,  and  olV  }'onder  among  a  vt'ry  thicket  of  roses, 
he  catches  the  sound  of  ladies'  voices,  the  tlntter  of  ladies' 
skirts. 

"  Humph  !  "  says  Captain  Dick,  and  sto[)s  in  his  whist- 
ling ;  "so  they  have  come.  I  thought  they  would.  I  hope 
the  governor — dear  old  woman-lover  that  he  is — is  happy  at 
last." 

An  amused  look  is  in  the  young  man's  gray  eyes,  as  he 
stands  and  reconnoitres.  I'he  trio  examine  the  lloral  beau- 
ties, unconscious  of  the  mischievous  gaze  upon  them. 

"As  if  1  didn't  see  through  the  transparent  ruse — bless  his 
innocent  old  soul — and  as  if  they  won't  see  through  it  too, 
before  they  are  an  hour  in  the  house  ;  I  only  hope  the 
young  lady  has  some  sense  of  humor.  And  three  of  them, 
by  George  !  I  should  think  the  Sultan  of  all  the  Turkeys 
must  feel  something  as  I  will,  when  the  last  lot  arrives." 

Ca[)tain  Dick  throws  back  his  head  and  laughs  all  by  him- 
self; a  mellow,  ringing,  thoroughly  joyous  laugh.  Then  he 
turns  to  escape  into  the  house,  for  it  will  not  do,  he  thinks, 
to  shock  these  delicate  creatures  with  a  rough  jacket  and  a 
slouch  hat,  when  Fate  wil^-.  it  otherwise.  The  trio  turn 
suddenly,  advance,  see  him,  and  retreat  is  cut  off.  He 
accepts  defeat  with  calmness,  and  stands  and  waits.  And  as 
he  waits  his  eyes  widen,  dilate,  with  surprise,  for  the  face  of 
the  younger  lady  is  the  face  in  colored  chalks  over  the  man- 
tel  at  Shaddeck  Light. 


A, FAIRY   TALE. 


21 


CHAPTER  III. 


A    I'AIRY   TALE. 


ly  him- 

lien  he 

hinks, 

and  a 

turn 

He 

nd  as 

ce  of 

man- 


NCE  upon  a  time  there  was  a  king  who  lived  in  a 
lovely  castle,  and  had  two  daughters.  The  oldest 
was  ever  "t  pretty,  and  her  name  was  the  I'rincess 
Snowllake.  The  youngest  wasn't  pretty  at  all,  and  her  name 
was  the  Princess  Jkownskin." 

The  narrator  pauses  for  breath.  She  is  ari  extremely 
}()ung  lady,  certainly  not  more  than  sixteen.  The  captious 
critic  might  perchance  hnd  fault  with  her  grannnar,  i)articu- 
larly  as  she  is  a  precei)tress  of  youth  ;  but  there  are  no  caj)- 
tious  critics  present — only  a  very  small  boy  and  a  smaller  girl. 

Twilight,  the  witching  hour  for  fairy  tales,  fills  the  room. 
Rainy  twilight,  too,  for  the  (lr()[)s  patter  against  the  plate 
glass,  driven  by  the  sweep  of  sunmier  wind. 

"  Well,  after  a  long  time  this  great,  beautiful  king  died," 
there  is  a  little  touch  of  sadness  in  the  fresh,  clear  voice  ; 
"  and  the  two  poor  little  princesses  were  thrown  all  alone 
on  the  world.     They  went  away  from  the  lovely  castle  into 

the   big,  noisy,  nasty,    ugly,    horrid    city Flossy  !     let 

l)ussy's  tail  alone.  Lex !  I  am  watching  you.  You  are 
falling  asleep,  sir,  just  as  fast  as  you  can  fall." 

"I  ain't!"  says  Lex,  indignantly;  "I  hear  every  \vord. 
Was  the  horrid  city  New  York,  Vera  ?  " 

"  Oh,  you  stupid  little  boy  !  as  if  there  ever  were  any 
princesses  in  New  York.  No,  this  was  in  Fairyland.  Well, 
and  then  these  two  princesses  had  to  go  to  work  as  if  they 
had  never  been  princesses  at  all.  Tlie  ugly  little  Princess 
Brownskin  didn't  mind  it  so  much,  because  she  only  had  to 
teach  two  little  children,  and  that  isn't  hard,  you  know,  but 
the  poor  pretty  Princess  Snowflake " 


22 


A  FAIRY    TALE. 


1 1 


"  Vera,"  says  Flossy,  opening  her  baby  eyes,  *•  was  the 
iidly  pwincess  j'(^//  /  " 

"  Tliere  never  was,"  says  the  young  lady  despairingly, 
"  such  a  ridiculous  small  girl  as  you,  l''lossy  !  Of  course 
not.  Whoever  said  I  was  a  princess.  Well — where  was  1  ? 
Oil  !  at  the  Princess  Snowllake.  Lex,  you  are  pulling 
pussy's  tail  now.  1  declare  I  won't  tell  another  word.  I'll 
get  rigiit  up  and  light  the  gas." 

Jiut  at  this  dismal  threat  both  children  set  up  a  cry  of 
misery  that  caused  their  stern  monitress  to  relent. 

"  Vera,  child,"  says  an  anxious  voice.  A  door  suddenly 
opens,  and  there  is  a  rustle  of  silk.  **  Are  you  here  ?  Oh, 
you  are.  1  want  you  to  go  to  Madame  Lebrun's  for  me. 
What  are  you  doing  ?  " 

"Telling  Floss  and  Lex  a  fairy  tale,"  answers  the  ex- 
tremely young  lady,  laughing  and  rising  from  the  hearth-rug, 
upon  which  she  has  been  coiled.  "Shall  1  light  the  gas, 
Mrs.  Trafton?" 

"  Yes,  please,  and  ring  for  Filomena — it  is  time  those 
children  were  in  the  nursery.  Lex,  if  you  cry,  sir,  you  shall 
be  whi[)ped." 

"  I  want  to  hear  about  the  pretty  Princess  Snowflake," 
pipes  little  Lex. 

"  Want  hear  about  pwetty  Pwincess  Nofake,"  echoes 
little  Flossy. 

"  Here,  Filomena,"  says  the  lady,  calmly,  twitching  her 
silk  skirts  from  Lex's  clinging  fingers,  "  take  those  children 
upstairs  directly.  Vera,  my  dear,  let  nurse  light  the  gas, 
you  will  strain  your  arms  if  you  stretch  up  like  that.  Yes, 
1  want  you  to  go  to  madame's  directly  ;  she  promised  to 
send  my  dress  home  at  five,  and  here  it  is  after  six,  and  not 
a  sign  of  it  yet.  But  it  is  exactly  like  her.  You  must  go 
and  try  it  on,  please  ;  our  figures  are  so  much  alike  she  will 
be  able  to  tell.  1  am  sorry  it  rains,"  walking  to  the  window 
and  looking  drearily  out.     "  1  would  send  the  carriage,  only 


^/   F.t/A'V    TAl.i:. 


23 


those 
shall 

ake," 

jchoes 

ig  her 
lUlren 

Yes, 
ed  to 
id  not 
St  go 

will 
indow 

only 


Mr.  Trafton  is  so  lirosonie  about  taking  out  the  liorses  in  the 
wet.     liut  you  can  take  a  stage " 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind  the  rain,"  says  Vera  brightly;  "I 
rather  like  it,  in  fact,  with  water[)roof  and  rubbers,  and  I 
shall  be  glad  to  see  Dot.  I  am  to  try  on,  and  wait  for  alter- 
ations, if  any  are  needed,  1  suppose,  Mrs.  Trafton?" 

*'  Yes,  my  dear  ;  and  if  you  have  to  wait  very  long,  make 
madame  send  some  one  back  with  you.  Tiresome  old  thing  ! 
she  never  does  finish  anything  when  she  promises." 

The  gas  is  lit  now,  and  Lex  and  Mossy,  wailing  loudly  for 
their  lost  princesses,  are  borne  off  by  the  ]''rench  nurse. 
'i"he  pretty  room,  "curtained,  and  close,  and  warm,"  is 
known  as  the  school-room,  but  in  it  there  is  more  of  (Irimm's 
•joblins  than  of  granmiar,  Kans  Andersen  than  horn-books. 
Mi-s.  Tiafton,  a  pale,  faded,  young  woman,  stanils  looking 
Out  al  the  fast  falling  rain,  ami  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
directly  under  the  chandelier,  is  Miss  Vera.  She  is  a  girl  of 
sixteen,  and  hardly  looks  that,  with  a  soft  cut,  childish,  inno- 
cent sort  of  face,  a  profusion  of  short,  black  hair,  a  pair  of 
dark  eyes  that  laugh  frankly  on  all  the  world,  and  small, 
wliite  teeth  that  Hash  forth  merrily  for  very  little  provoca- 
tion.    She  is  thin  and  dark,  too  unformed  and  angular  for 

>  CD 

good  looks,  but  a  bright  brown  fairy,  and  n(»t  in  the  slightest 
like  any  one's  ideal  of  a  governess.  She  Icjoks  as  if  she 
iiiighi  very  well  go  into  the  school-room  herself  foi  three  or 
four  years,  and  be  the  better  for  it. 

She  encases  herself  in  a  waterproof,  crushes  a  little  straw 
hat  down  on  all  her  soft  curls,  and  trips  away  as  gayly  as 
though  it  were  a  sunlit  noonday.  It  is  raining  quite  heavily, 
but  she  catches  an  onmibus  at  the  corner,  and  goes  rattling 
down  town  to  the  great  dressmaking  emi>orium  on  Four- 
teenth Street.  The  city  lamps  are  lit,  and  shine  througli 
the  wet  drift  of  the  rain.  I'he  pavements  are  greased  with 
that  slimy  black  mud,  dear  from  long  association,  to  the 
heart  of  the  New  Yorker.     People  hurry  by  with  gloomy 


;•[ 


24 


//  FAIKY    TAI.E. 


faces  under  their  umbrclhis.  Vera  gets  out  at  the  corner  of 
Fourteenth  Street,  unfurls  her  parachute,  tiptoes  with  nuich 
distaste  through  the  sticky  mud,  and  up  die  steps  of  Madame 
liCbrun's  estabhshment.  A  colored  man  in  livery  opens  the 
door,  and  Miss  Vera  smiles  a  friendly  smile  of  accpiaintance- 
ship. 

"  De  do,  Jackson?  Dreadful  sort  of  evening,  isn't  it? 
Is  my  sister  in  ?  " 

"1  presume  so,  Miss  Vera.  This  way,  Miss  Vera,  if  you 
please  ;  the  reception-rooms  are  engaged.  Step  in  here  one 
moment,  and  1  will  inform  Miss  Lightvvood." 

The  gentlemanly  Jackson  ushers  her  into  a  small  room, 
and  leaves  her.  She  has  to  wait  for  some  time,  and  is  grow- 
ing impatient,  when  the  door  quickly  oi)ens  and  her  sister 
enters. 

"  Vera  !  "  she  exclaims,  *'  Jackson  told  me Oh  !  here 

you  are,  1  did  not  see  you  for  a  moment.  Mrs.  Traflon 
has  sent  for  her  ball-dress,  I  suppose  ?  Well,  she  might  have 
spared  you  the  trouble,  for  it  went  five  minutes  before  you 
came.  IJut  it  is  just  as  well,  for  if  you  had  not  come,  I  must 
have  gone  to  see  you.     Vera,  1  have  such  news  !  " 

She  steps  and  clasps  her  hands,  and  looks  at  her  sister 
with  shining  eyes.  She  is  small,  slight,  and  excessively 
pretty  ;  a  young  woman,  not  a  girl,  with  a  pale,  delicate 
face,  a  profusion  of  light  hair  elaborately  "  done,"  and  set 
off  by  a  knot  of  crimson  silk.  Her  eyes  are  as  blue  as  for- 
get-me-nots, her  complexion  as  milky  white  as  a  baby's.  A 
beautiful  little  woman,  but  somehow  looking  every  day  of 
her  six-and-twenty  years. 

Vera  opens  wide  her  black  eyes. 

"  News,  Dot  ?    Where  from  ?    Who  from  ?    What  about?  " 

"  Look  here  ! "  Dot  draws  from  her  pocket  a  letter,  and 
unfolds  it  triumi)hantly.  "  Do  you  see  this  letter  ?  It  came 
this  morning,  and  tliat  is  why  I  meant  to  go  and  see  you  to- 
night.    Vera,  you  never  iv;//A/ guess  whom  it  is  from  ?" 


A  FMKY  TALE. 


25 


orncr  of 
.h  nuich 

)cns  the 
inlance- 

isn't  it  ? 

I,  if  you 
icrc  one 

ill  room, 
is  grow- 
er sislcr 

3h  !  here 

Trafton 

iiiht  have 

fore  you 

I  must 

ler  sister 
;cssively 
delicate 
and  set 
le  as  for- 
)y's.  A 
day  of 


xbout?" 

Iter,  and 

lit  came 

you  to- 

1?" 


1 


"  Never,"  says  Vera,  with  an  air  of  conviction  ;  "  I  never 
guessed  a  riddle  of  nn\  kind  in  my  Mfc.      Who  ?" 

"Front  Mr.  Charlton — the  Honorable  Robert  ('harlton, 
of  Charlton  I'lace,  Si.  .\nn's,"  says  Dot  with  unction,  "anil 
it  is  an  invitation  to  both  of  us  to  go  there  and  sjjcnd  the 
sununcr.  ]>oth  of  us.  Vera.  lie  says  expressly — wlure  is 
the  place — bring  your  half-sister,  Miss  Veronica,  with  )()U  ; 
I  am  sure  the  \)oor  little  thing  must  need  a  glimpse  of 
green  fields  and  blue  water  after  her  prolonged  course  of 
stony  city  streets.  Come  as  soon  as  you  can,  and  enclosed 
please  fmd  check  for  travelling  expenses.  Vera,  how  nuu:h 
do  you  sui)pose  the  check  is  for  ?  Three — hundred — dol- 
lars !  " 

Vera  snatches  up  her  hat  and  waves  it  above  her 
head.  "  Hooray  !  Your  Mr.  Charlton  is  a  i)rince — long 
life  to  him  !  Three  hundred  dollars,  green  fields  and 
blue " 

"  lie  (luiet,  Vera.  Do,  for  pity's  sake,  get  rid  of  your 
roin[)ing  propensities  before  we  go.  Mr.  Charlton  evitlently 
looks  ui)on  you  as  a  little  girl,  and  I  am  sure  you  act  like 
one,  and  a  hoidenish  one  at  that.  A  young  lady  of  sixteen 
past " 

"  Oh,  never  mind  that,  Dot — don't  scold.  Read  me 
some  more  of  the  letter — he  does  express  himself  so  beauti- 
fully I  '  Inclosed  please  find  check  for  travelling  exp'inses.' 
Could  anything  be  more  exquisite  than  that  V^ 

"  'J'here  is  nothing  else  in  particular,"  says  Dot,  folding  it 
up  and  replacing  it  in  her  pocket.  "He  mentions  that  Mrs. 
Charlton  and  her  daughter  from  New  Orleans  are  also  com- 
ing. He  speaks  casually,  I  believe,  of  his  step-son  Richard 
I'Trench,  who  has  lately  returned  from  somewhere — Lapland, 
or  Greenland,  or  the  North  Pole." 

"  Lapland,  Greenland,  or  the  North  Pole,"  sighs  Vera, 
fanning  herself  with  her  hat,  "  how  nice  and  cool  they 
sound.     I  wonder  Richard  Ffrench  didn't  stay  there.     Mr. 


26 


A  FAIRY   TALE. 


m  i 


I  'ig 


1 


i 


Charlton's  stepson — uni  —  is  he  his  o)ily  son,  his  heir, 
Dot?" 

"  I  presume  so,"  Dot  answers,  and  a  demure  smile  dim- 
ples her  pretty  face. 

"  It  is  a  very  lucky  thing,"  says  Vera,  regarding  her  sister 
gravely,  "that  you  are  pretty.  It  would  be  a  shame  for 
two  ugly  girls  to  inflict  themselves  on  one  house,  and 
a  rich  young  man  there  too.  It  is  not  to  be  supposed 
that  Richard  Ffrench  has  left  his  heart's  best  affections 
ith   a   l^aplander,    or  a   Greenlander,   or   a  North    Poler. 


W) 


And  that  dress  is  awfully  becoming  to  you.  Dot.     Navy- 

-      Dot,  when  are   we 


blue,   and  dark  red  in  the  hair 

going  ?" 

"  There  is  no  need  of  delay.  I  told  madame  at  once, 
and  though  she  regrets,  and  so  on,  she  has  to  consent.  I 
shall  use  the  money  of  course,  and  1  see  no  reason  why  we 
should  not  start  next  week.  Now,  if  you  are  going  home, 
you  had  better  go  ;  it  is  getting  late,  and  raining  hard.  Tell 
Mrs.  'I'rafton — or,  no.  1  will  call  to-morrow,  and  tell  her 
myself,  and  then  we  can  go  down  to  Stewart's  together  for 
our  things." 

"To  Stewart's  together  for  our  things,"  repeats  Vera,  in 
a  sort  of  dreamy  ecstasy  ;  "  it  is  lovely,  it  is  heavenly,  it  is 
one  of  my  fairy  tales  come  true.  Tiie  Princess  SnowHake 
shall  go  lo  St.  Ann's,  and  Prince  Richard  Cc&ur  de  Lio?i 
shall  have  the  prettiest  wife  in  all  the  world.  Shall  you 
wear  white  silk,  or  a  travelling  suit  when  you  are  married, 
Dot,  and  may  I  stay  among  the  green  fields  and  blue  sea 
forever  and  ever  ?  Yes,  it  is  a  fairy  tale,  with  castle,  and 
prince,  and  everytliirg  just  as  it  ought  to  be.  Shopping 
to  morrow  at  Stewail's  !  No,  I  cannot  realize  it.  Good- 
night, Dot." 

"  Good-night,  goose,"  laughs  Dot,  and  sees  her  to  the 
door.  This  little  dark  girl  is  the  one  thing  in  all  the  world 
that  Theodora  Lightwood  loves. 


A  MAN'S  LETTER. 


27 


his  heir, 

nile  dim- 

her  sister 
haiiie  for 
)use,  and 
supposed 
affections 
th  Poler. 
t.  Navy- 
n  are  we 


Vera  goes  home  through  the  wet,  wind-beaten,  mud- 
splashed  city  streets,  and  the  world  is  all  rose-color,  the 
pavements  of  crystal  and  jas[)er,  the  raylcss  night  sky  ashine 
with  the  light  of  hope.  She  is  living  a  fairy  tale  ;  the  en- 
chanted palace  awaits,  the  dashing  I'rince  Charming  is  there, 
a  long  golden  summer  lies  before 

'*  And  the  Princess  SnowHake  married  Prince  Richard, 
the  Laplander,"  cries  Vera,  gleefully,  gi'ing  wakeful  Lex  a 
rapturous  hug,  'and  they  lived  happy  forever  after." 


e  at  once, 
)nsent.  I 
)n  why  we 
inof  home, 
lard.  Tell 
I  tell  her 
wether  for 


Vera,  in 

nly,  it  is 

nowtlake 

de  Lion 

5hall  you 

married, 

blue  sea 

stle,  and 

Shopping 

Good- 

kr  to  the 
the  world 


CHAPTER  IV. 


A  man's  letter. 


Frfl?n  Captain  Richard  Ffrcnch  to  Dr.  Einil  Englchart. 

XD  so,  after  a  year  in  Baffin's  Bay,  a  winter  in  St. 
Petersburg,  after  rinking  with  London  belles,  and 
after  waltzing  with  Viennese  beauties,  without  risk 
to  wind  or  limb,  you  slip  on  an  innoxious  orange-peel  in  New 
York  streets,  and  manage  to  sprain  your  ankle.  Great  is 
Allah,  and  wonderful  are  the  ways  of  F.mil  Englehart !  All 
the  same,  old  boy,  it  must  be  no  end  of  a  bore  to  be  tied  up 
by  the  leg,  just  at  this  time  when  there  is  so  nuich  to  be  done 
about  the  expedition  which  nobody  but  you  can  do.  As  it 
is  of  no  use  crying  over  spilled  milk,  however,  you  may  as 
well  dry  your  eyes,  cease  your  howls,  put  your  snapped 
ankle  under  the  nearest  water-spout,  and  improve  your  mind 
during  the  next  fortnight  by  reading  hard  at  Spanish.  I  am 
getting  on  myself;  I  have  a  den  out  here  in  the  '  vasty  deep,' 
a  little  house  about  the  size  to  hang  from  your  watch-chain, 
perched  on  a  rock,  and  in  it  I  spend  my  days.  My  nights, 
when  the  moon  is  at  the  full,  I  devote  to  the  toilers  of  the 


28 


/I   MAN'S  LETTER. 


.1 


I  \. 


sea.  Such  has  been  my  life  for  the  past  six  weeks  )  peace- 
ful, virtuous,  studious,  monotonous  ;  but,  alas  ! 

*'  *  Notliing  can  be  as  it  has  been  before. 
Belter  so  call  it,  only  not  the  same.' 

"  A  change  is  coming,  has  come  ;  woman  has  entered  my 
Eden,  and  the  bliss  of  unintcrrui)ted  days  of  reading  and 
drawing,  of  smoking  peaceful  calumets  in  the  best  parlor  of 
the  Mancr  House,  o'  evenings  of  dining  in  a  pea-jacket,  is 
at  an  end.  If  I  threw  the  house  out  of  the  window,  it  would 
be  good  and  admirable  in  the  eyes  of  the  dear  old  governor, 
but  the  delicate  female  mind,  the  sensitive  female  olfactories 
must  be  shocked  by  no  deed  of  mine.  Henceforward  free- 
dom is  gone,  and  I  return  to  the  trammels  of  civilization  and 
tail-coats. 

"  I  have  never  told  you  about  the  governor,  have  I,  nor 
how  I  come  to  have  a  home  hereabouts  ?  No,  I  don't  think 
J  have.  We  always  found  enough  to  do,  and  say,  and  think, 
without  going  into  autobiography.  But  now  the  chained 
tiger  is  to  be  soothed,  the  sick  surgeon  to  be  charmed  out  of 
his  loneliness.  I  am  ordered,  under  penalty  of  bastinado  and 
bow-string,  to  write  long  letters,  amusing  letters,  and  my  lord, 
the  Sultan,  shall  be  obeyed.  Long  they  shall  be,  amusing 
they  may  be,  if  you  find  yourself  weakened  intellectually,  as 
well  as  i)h}'sically,  by  your  sprained  ankle. 

"  P'ourteen  years  ago,  then,  I  went  home  one  vacation 
from  school,  to  find  my  mother  transferred  from  her  cottage 
to  a  handsome  home,  and  to  be  introduced  to  a  tall,  spare, 
elderly  gentleman,  '  frosty  but  kindly,'  as  my  new  papa.  I 
was  about  thirteen  at  the  time,  with  very  pronounced  ideas 
on  the  subject  of  step-fathers,  and,  for  the  matter  of  that,  on 
most  other  subjects. 

*'  '  You  must  be  sure  to  call  Mr.  Charlton  papa,  Dick,' 
my  mother  said  to  me,  confidentially.  *  You  don't  know  how 
good  he  is,  and  how  fond  he  is  prepared  to  be  of  you.     When 


A  MAN'S  LETTER. 


29 


5 ;  peace* 


itered  my 
ading  and 

parlor  of 
L-jacket,  is 
,',  it  would 

governor, 
olfactories 
•ward  free- 
nation  and 

lave  I,  nor 
don't  think 
and  think, 
le  chained 
lied  out  of 
tinado  and 
d  my  lord, 
,  amusing 
jctually,  as 

vacation 

|er  cottage 

ill,  spare, 

papa.     I 

Iced  ideas 

)f  that,  on 

)a,  Dick,' 

aiow  how 

11.     When 


you  are  going   to  bed,  to-night,  you  will  go  up  to  him  very 
nicely  and  say,  "  Good-night,  papa." 

"  I  listened,  committed  myself  to  nothing,  and  revolved 
the  matter  all  day.  Bedtime  came,  1  kissed  my  mother,  who 
looked  anxious,  and  went  up  to  my  new  father,  who  sat 
beaming  benignly  upon  me  through  his  double-barrelled  eye- 
glass. 

"'Mr.  Charlton,'  I  began,  *  mother  says  you  are  my 
father,  and  I  am  to  call  you  so.  Now,  that  cannot  be.  No 
fellow  can  have  two  fathers,  and  I  would  rather  not.' 

"  Dick  !  "  my  mother  exclaimed,  in  dismay. 

"  *  Never  mind,  Dick,'  Mr.  Charlton  said,  laughing  ;  *  I 
like  his  honesty  and  his  logic.  So  I  am  not  to  be  adopted  as 
father,  Dick — what  then  is  it  to  be  ?  " 

*' '  Thank  you,  sir.  You  were  governor  of  a  Western  State 
some  years  ago,  mother  says,  and  if  you  wouldn't  mind,  I 
should  like  to  call  you  governor.  Lots  of  fellows  1  know, 
call  their  fathers  that,  regular  out-and-out  fathers,  you  know. 
May  T,  sir?' 

"  '  Certainly,  Dick.  Governor  let  it  be,  by  all  means,'  re- 
sponded Mr.  Charlton,  still  laughing,  and  so  we  shook  hanils, 
and  that  delicate  matter  was  settled  once  and  for  all. 

"  I  need  not  tell  yu.i  what  sort  of  father  I  found  ;  no  man 
could  have  loved  his  own  son  better.  My  poor  mother  died, 
and  from  that  hour  his  affection  seemed  to  redouble.  All 
that  I  have,  or  am,  I  owe  him.  Men  don't  much  talk  or 
even  think  of  this  sort  of  thing,  but  the  tie  between  us  is  one 
strong  and  deep.  All  the  same,  I  am  the  plague  of  his  life  ; 
my  Arab  propensity  for  folding  my  tent  and  silently  stealing 
away,  my  Bohemian  instincts  when  at  home,  are  alike  the 
botlier  of  his  existence.  It  came  very  near  being  a  serious 
matter,  last  year,  when  I  went  with  you  all  to  the  Polar  Sea. 
The  Honduras  Expedition  he  will  not  even  hear  of,  and  that 
is  why,  principally,  I  have  fitted  up  this  Robinson  Crusoe 
castle  out  in  Shaddeck  Bay,  to  keep  my  reading  and  sketch- 


30 


A   MAN'S  LETTER. 


i 


I  I 


;   ,1 


i!' 


il'i 


ing  out  of  his  sight  The  place  was  formerly  a  sort  of  bea- 
con for  fishers  and  whalers,  but  long  ago  was  deserved,  and 
is  as  isolated  as  heart  can  wish.  He  wants  nie  to  take  to 
one  of  the  learned  profession^,  his  own  for  instance — law — 
and  stay  respectably  at  home.  A  man  ought  to  settle,  he 
says,  at  seven-and-twenty  ;  and  so  he  ought,  I  sup[)ose,  but 
there  must  be  vagabond  blood  in  me,  for  settling  is  the  last 
thing  I  want  to  think  of  1  tried  it  once  for  six  months,  and 
grew  restless  and  cross-grained  as  the  devil.  Since  he  came 
into  the  great  Charlton  fortune,  his  monomania  for  keeping 
me  at  home  has  grown  to  giant  proi)ortions.  He  has  be- 
come rabid — a  man  of  one  idea,  and  that  is  why  he  has  sent 
for but  I  have  not  come  to  thai;  yet. 

"  It  ought  to  be  flattering,  this  rampant  affection,  and  is, 
and  I  love  the  dear  old  fellow  ;  still  I  cannot  reconcile  my- 
self to  the  idea  of  ranging  in  this  dull-as-death  little  country 
town,  and  settling  down  to  turnips  and  prize  pumi)kins, 
short  horns,  steam  plows,  and  top  dressing,  militia  drill,  and 
cider  drinking.  Ungrateful,  I  know,  but  as  Dr.  Watts  re- 
marks, *  it  is  my  nature  to.' 

"  Have  you  ever  visited  St.  Ann's?  It  is  about  ninety 
miles  from  New  York,  and  if  ever  the  doctors  send  you  to 
grass,  turn  you  out  to  vegetate,  not  live,  by  all  means  come 
here.  It  is  a  finished  town.  Thirty  years  ago  it  stoi)ped 
growing,  and  has  never  advanced  an  inch  since.  And  for 
that  very  reason  it  is  a  charming  place,  with  old  homesteads 
embowered  in  trees,  spreading  orchards,  golden  and  ruddy 
with  fruit,  old-fashioned  gardens,  where  all  sweet-smelling 
things  run  riot,  yellow  fields  of  waving  grain,  long,  white, 
lonely  roads,  sleepy,  Sunday  stillness  in  perpetuity ;  and 
at  its  feet  the  everlasting  sea,  wash,  wash,  washing.  And 
among  its  other  products.  Vestal  virgins  abound  ;  the  num- 
ber of  old  maids  is  something  pathetic.  They  muster  strong 
on  Sunday  afternoons,  up  to  the  white  meeting-house  on  the 
hill — one  ceases  to  view   polygamy   as  an   evil,  when   one 


nVi 


A   MAN'S 'LETTER. 


31 


t  of  bea- 
:yQ.(\^  and 

take  to 
J — law — 
ettle,  he 
[)ose,  but 
5  the  last 
ittis,  and 

he  came 

keeping 
I  has  be- 

has  sent 

1,  and  is, 
icile  my- 
coiintry 
umi)kins, 
(Irill,  and 
Vatts  re- 
ninety 
you  to 
IS  come 
stopped 
And  for 
nesteads 
d  ruddy 
imelling 
J,  white, 
ty ;  and 
And 
e  nmn- 
•  strong 
on  the 
;n   one 


watches  them  on  their  winding  way,  as  faded  and  out  of  date 
as  the  bonnets  they  wear,  with  patient  hands  folded  over 
unai)propriated  hearts. 

"Once  St.  Ann's  was  a  place  of  bustle  and  business,  and 
sent  out  its  lleet  of  whalers  yearly,  and  in  those  days  John 
Charlton  made  his  fortune,  built  a  house,  died,  and  left  all 


to  Ins  younger 


brolh 


er, 


^Vh 


en  my  day 


comes,  1  am  t(?l(l,  I 


am  to  have  it  all,  if,  meantime,  1  behave  myself,  settle  to  law 
and  monotony,  marry  a  wife,  and  stay  at  home. 

'*  Marry  a  wife  I  A[y  dear  Englehart,  do  you  remember — • 
I  think  you  do — that  girl  who  gave  lessons  at  your  sister's  in 
New  Orleans  ?  A  tall.  Madonna-like  maiden,  a  sort  of  human 
cplla  lily,  with  serene  eyes,  passionless  and  pure  ?  Your  little 
nieces  called  her  mademoiselle,  nothing  but  mademoi.ielle, 
just  as  they  dubbed  me  'Uncle  Uick' — you  remember  ?  Well, 
she  is  here.  Her  name  is  Eleanor  Charlton,  and  she  is  what 
a  girl  with  such  eyes  should  be.  Her  father  was  Mr.  Charlton's 
cousin,  once  removed,  and  he  has  sent  for  her  to  come  and 
spend  the  summer.  Her  mother  is  with  her,  a  majestic 
matron  ;  bland  as  sweet  oil,  but  with  an  eye  of  stone,  and  a 
l)air  of  cruelly  tight  lips.  I  see  her  daughter  wince,  some- 
times, under  that  stony  glance.  They  came  three  days  ago, 
and  I  met  them  one  evening  in  the  grounds.  There  were 
mutual  exclamations — '  Mademoiselle  !  '  '  Uncle  Dick  ! ' 
then  a  bur^t  of  laughter,  a  charming  blush  on  the  lady's 
part,  explanations  on  the  gentleman's,  and  an  adjournment 
to  diuner.  After  dinner  there  was  music  ;  she  plays  l>ach, 
Beethoven,  Afozart,  this  poor  Miss  Eleanor,  who  is  a  music- 
teacher  by  profession,  I  don't  affect  the  piano-forte  as  a 
rule,  but  I  hke  such  playing  as  this.  The  violin  came  down 
after  a  little,  and  the  governor  beamed  through  his  lenses, 
shone,  scintillated,  was  radiant,  Mrs.  Charlton  knows  how 
to  keep  her  dig)iitied  face  in  order,  hut  I  caught  more  than 
once,  a  'Bless  you  my,  children  '  look,  out  of  the  hard, 
austere  eyes.     As  for  mademoiselle — 1   like  her,  Englehart, 


32 


A   MAN'S  LETTER. 


li       |l 


i     "  I 


I  always  knew  I  should  like  her  if  I  got  a  chance,  and — I 
caught  myself  revolving,  last  night,  the  practicability  of  life 
on  land,  of  tax-paying,  land-draiin'ng,  stock-breeding,  horse- 
breaking,  cradle  rocking,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  If  any  one 
could  make  it  worth  while,  it  would  be  this  young  woman. 
I  know,  and  she  knows,  and  we  all  know,  what  she  is  here 
for.  liless  the  governor!  'Take  her,  you  dog,  and  be 
hapi^y  ! '  shines  forth  in  every  wrinkle  of  liis  dear,  kindly, 
handsome  old  fiice.  TUit  she  holds  herself  very  far  off,  and  I 
like  her  all  the  better  for  it.  And  I  don't  know.  And 
don't  you  fill  my  place  in  the  scientific  cori)S  yet  awhile — 

id  He  He  it  !|c  4:  ¥ 

"  I  left  off  last  night  rather  abru[)tly,  and  to-day  the  i)lot 
has  thickened.  I  laugh  by  myself  as  1  write.  Two  more 
have  come  this  afternoon.  1  have  not  been  presented  yet, 
but  look  for  that  ceremony  to-morrow.  Young  ladies  of 
course,  cousins  again,  but  this  time  so  very  far  removed  that 
the  cousinship  will  hardly  do  to  swear  by.  Once  upon  a 
time,  a  Catherine  Charlton — so  runneth  the  legend — married 
a  Southern  planter,  and  the  '  consekins  of  that  manoovre,'  to 
quote  Sam  Weller,  was  a  daughter.  This  is  the  elder  of  the 
two.  The  Southern  planter  died,  and  in  the  fulness  of  time 
the  widow  wedded  again,  a  Cuban,  with  a  yaiH  long  pedigree 
and  quantities  of  blue  blood,  and  another  daughter  saw  the 
light.  These  half-sisters  are  our  new  arrivals.  Father  and 
mother  dead,  wealth  lost  in  civil  war,  earning  their  living  in 
New  York  in  the  old  weary  ways,  sewing  and  teaching. 
Oh  !  these  poor  little  women  who  work  I  It  is  breaking 
buttertlies,  putting  hunmiing-birds  in  harness.  My  soul  stirs 
with  an  infinite  compassion  for  them  all. 

"Yesterday  afternoon  I  went  out  with  my  henchman, 
Daddy,  and  diifted  about  on  the  high  seas,  lazy  and  hapi)y, 
my  mind  a  blank,  my  conscience  at  ease,  my  digestion  at 
its  best,  until  the  red  sun  set,  and  the  white  moon  rose. 
Daddy — not  christened  Daddy  by  his  godfathers  and   god- 


ii     ;,:• 


1 


A   Af.LV'S  LETTER. 


33 


:e,  and — I 
ility  of  life 
ng,  horse- 
[f  any  one 
g  woman, 
he  is  here 
J,  and  be 
ar,  kindly, 
off,  and  1 
ovv.  And 
.while — 

ly  the  [)]ot 

fwo   niore 

lented  yet, 

ladies   of 

lOved  that 

;e   npon  a 

— married 

oovre,'  to 

der  uf  the 

s  of  time 

pedigree 

r  saw  the 

ther  and 

living  in 

[teaching. 

breaking 

soul  stirs 


Inch  man, 

|l  happy, 

jtion   at 

)n  rose. 

lid   god- 


mothers in  baptism,  bnt  yclept  *  Daddy-long  legs,'  by  sundry 
small  boys,  for  obvious  reasons — Daddy  took  the  oars  in  the 
gray  of  the  evenmg  and  rowed  me  home.  The  house  was 
all  alight,  the  windows  all  open,  music  and  woman's  laughter 
floated  out  into  the  pleasant  summer  night.  I  stood  under 
some  trees  and  saw  them  all — a  pretty  picture.  Dinner  was 
over,  the  governor  and  Mrs.  Charlton  ;^at  comfortably  in  a 
corner  at  cards.  Miss  Charlton  was  at  a  litfle  table  making 
something — point  lace  I  think  she  calls  it.  She  almost 
always  wears  black,  which  becomes  her,  and  very  few  orna- 
ments. She  needs  none,  and  knows  it  i)erhaps  ;  the  *  flower 
face,'  the  'stilly  tranquil  manner,'  the  coils  of  silky  chestnut 
hair — they  are  enough.  She  looked  a  household  si)rite,  a 
fireside  fairy,  an  angel  of  hearth  and  home,  sitting  there.  I 
declare  to  you,  the  old  strong  instinct,  older  than  original 
sin — 'it  is  not  good  for  man  to  be  alone  ' — awoke  wilhin  me 
for  the  first  time.  And  then  a  shining  vision  came  between 
me  and  her,  something  in  white  and  blue,  a  stage  fairy,  wiUi 
loose  golden  hair,  and  a  waist  like  the  stem  of  a  wineglass. 
I  looked  for  the  other  and  saw  a  little  girl,  a  bright  brosvnie, 
with  black  eyes,  and  a  real  girl's  bewitching  laugh.  Strange 
to  say,  1  felt  no  desire  to  intrude  my  rough  masculine  pres- 
ence among  all  that  fair  femininity.  1  stood,  I  gazed,  I 
admired,  for  a  while,  and  then  I  came  up  to  my  room.  And 
here  I  am  ;  and  you,  most  puissant,  enjoy  the  benefits  of  my 
passing  misogyny.  It  is  pleasant  to  have  these  young  women 
in  the  house,  it  brightens  things,  and  there  is  always  Shad- 
deck  Light  when  the  sweetness  begins  to  cloy.  It  is  part  of 
my  coarse-grained  nature,  I  suppose,  but  even  as  a  boy  I 
never  had  a  taste  for  loUypops  ;  and  as  a  man,  a  litcle,  a 
very  little,  of  young  ladies'  society  goes  a  great  way.  They 
so  seldom  have  anything  to  say  for  themselves,  and  if  they 
are  pretty  to  look  at,  as  they  generally  are,  it  is  a  pity  to  si)oil 
the  illusion.  Miss  Charlton  can  talk,  but  mostly  she  doesn't ; 
I  find  her  silent,  and  have  a  suspicion  that  she  thinks,  and 


'Ill ' 


34 


BEFORE  HREAKFAST. 


111! 


irf" 


l!; 


'1!    |-'l 


1  i 

li   M 


I  ! 


rends  Ruskin  and  Stuart  Mill.  As  for  the  others — one  is  a 
fluffy  haired  i)eri,  an:l  the  second  a  dark  fairy,  'too  low  for  a 
high  praise,  too  brown  for  a  fair  praise,  and  too  little  for  a 
great  praise  ! '     Further  particulars  in  my  next. 

"  If  there  is  anything  1  can  do  for  you,  old  boy,  counnand 
me.  I  can  run  up  at  any  time,  there  is  nothing  to  detain 
me.  In  spite  of  all  the  nonsense  I  have  set  down  here,  the 
Central  American  Expedition  is  very  near  this  heart,  and 
the  sooner  you  get  that  dislocated  limb  in  working  order  the 
better.  I  hope  nothing  will  occur  to  postpone  things  ;  Sep- 
tember will  be  a  good  month  for  the  start.  My  owe  regret  is, 
the  vexation  my  going  will  be  to  the  governor  ;  but  to  stay 
here,  idly  pottering  around,  i)laying  crocjuet,  drinking  after- 
noon tea,  fiddling  in  time  to  the  piano,  driving  about  in 
basket  carriages,  and  waiting  for  dead  men's  shoes — that 
way  madness  lies.  Drop  me  a  screed  ;  a  man  may  write 
with  one  ankle,  may  he  not  ?     And  believe  me,  as  ever, 

"Richard  Caryl  Ffrench." 


CHAPTER  V. 


BEFORE    BREAKFAST. 


r  is  lovely,"  says  Vera,  *'  it  is  delicious,  it  is  all  my 
fancy  painted  it,  it  is  the  Castle  of  the  Sleeping 
Beauty.  And  that  reminds  me.  Dot,  I  wonder  if 
the  Sleeping  Beauty  is  still  asleep,  or  whether  he  came  home 
at  all  last  night!" 

*'  Very  uncivil  of  him  in  any  case,"  responds  Miss  Light- 
wood,  "  not  to  put  in  an  appearance  even  for  one  moment, 
knowing  we  were  expected,  too.  Mrs.  Charlton  took  care 
to  impress  upon  me,  with  evident  satisfaction,  that  it  was  his 


BEFORE  BREAKFAST. 


35 


one  IS  a 
ow  for  a 
tie  for  a 

oiiimand 
o  detain 
icre,  the 
,-art,  and 
)rder  the 
l^\  Sep- 
regret  is, 
to  stay 
ng  after- 
about  in 
)es — that 
lay  write 
:ver, 

lNCH." 


all  my 

leeping 

)nder  if 

je  home 

Light- 
moment, 
jk  care 
Iwas  his 


very  first  absence  since  their  arrival,  lint  a  little  rudeness, 
more  or  less,  what  can  it  signify  to  two  persons  in  our  sta- 
tion in  life  ?  " 

Miss  Lightwood  yawns  sleepily  as  she  says  it,  and  turns 
over  for  another  nap.  She  is  in  bed,  and  looks  rather  pret- 
tier there  than  out  of  it,  certain  fine  lines  of  discontent  that 
mar  the  expression  of  her  waking  hours,  being  effaced  by 
slumber.  Her  cheeks  flushed  rose-pink,  her  fair  hair  all 
loose  and  damp,  her  blue  eyes  humid  with  drowsiness.  She 
does  not  look  as  though  last  night's  defection  preyed  upon 
her.  Vera,  always  one  of  the  earliest  of  early  birds,  stands 
at  the  window  looking  out  over  waving  trees,  rainbow  pas- 
tures, velvet  slopes  of  sward,  as  if  she  could  never  look  her 
fill. 

*'  After  all,  Dot,  it  must  be  a  blessed  thing  to  be  rich, 
and  have  a  home  like  this.  Do  be  just  as  nice  to  Captain 
I'french  when  you  meet  him  as  you  know  how " 

But  Dot  is  serenely  asleep,  and  Vera  takes  her  hat  and 
makes  her  way  down-stairs,  and  out  of  the  house.  It  was 
almost  dark  last  evening  when  tiiey  arrived,  and  in  the  bus- 
tle of  welcome  and  dinner,  and  the  first  shyness  of  meeting 
])erfectly  unknown  peo|)le  in  a  perfectly  unknown  house,  she 
has  seen  very  little.  But  this  morning  it  has  broken  upon 
her,  a  very  dream  of  beauty.  Her  Southern  home  has  faded 
into  a  hazy  memory  ;  for  years  the  poor  child  has  known 
nothing  but  tiie  stony,  unbeautiful  city  streets.  And  here  are 
wildernesses  of  greenery,  here  are  great  stone  urns  ablaze 
with  color,  here  are  beds  and  beds  of  mignonette,  of  pansy, 
of  geranium,  here  are  thickets  of  roses,  and  trees  of  fuchsia, 
here  are  statues  gleaming  whitely,  and  gold  and  silver  fish 
in  mimic  ponds.  Over  her  head  is  rising  the  dazzling  July 
sun,  afar  off  she  catches  the  flash  of  the  sea,  and  smells  its 
salt,  strong  sweetness — the  sea  that  she  has  never  looked 
ui)on  but  in  pictures  and  dreams. 

"Oh!  "  sighs  Vera,  in  a  rapture  of  gladness,  "it  is  too 


3<3 


BEFORE  BREAKFAST. 


ill>  ! 


I  1 


'i  ' 
I 


j  I  i 


I  > 


II 


Mill 


iiiii 


much.     I  Tow  will  we  ever  go  back  to  New  York  ?     Heaven 
must  be  like  this." 

She  banishes  the  untimely  thought  of  New  York.  She  is 
sixteen,  the  siunnier  is  before  her,  Dot  is  pretty  and  Captain 
I'Trench  is  only  mortal.  Which  is  Captain  Ffrench's  window, 
she  wonders,  and  is  he  sluggishly  sleeping  away  this  paradis- 
iacal morning  ?  It  is  joy  enough  to  be  alive  on  such  a  day. 
A  thousand  little  birds  are  singing  around  her,  the  perfume 
of  heliotrope  and  rose  is  everywhere,  she  breaks  off  sprays 
as  she  goes  and  makes  a  boucjuet,  singing  without  knowing 
that  she  sings  : 

'•  '  Alas  !  how  easily  things  go  wrong ; 
A  sigh  too  nuicl),  or  a  i<iss  too  long, 
And  there  follows  a  mist  and  a  sweeping  rain, 
And  life  is  never  the  same  again.'  " 

Singularly  inappropriate,  but  she  gives  no  thought  to  what 
she  is  singing.  Nothing  could  ever  go  wrong  in  this  Eden. 
There  would  always  be  the  birds,  and  the  trees,  and  the  tlow- 
ers,  and  the  sea — Oh  !  the  sea !  she  must  go  there  and  look 
upon  it  for  the  first  time. 

She  goes,  and  it  breaks  upon  her  with  a  sense  of  might 
and  loveliness,  that  holds  her  silent  and  spell-bound. 

"  It  is  like  a  dream — like  a  dream  !  "  she  whispers,  "  Oh  ! 
you  great,  beautiful,  fearful  sea  I  "  It  is  better  after  all,  than 
the  green  lovehness  of  the  land,  and  she  goes  on  and  down, 
until  she  stands  where  the  shining  baby  waves  creep  up  to 
her  very  feet.  It  is  a  sort  of  creek,  and  a  boat  is  moored  to 
a  stake — a  pretty  boat,  all  white  and  blue,  with  a  smiling, 
saucy  face  painted  on  the  stern,  and  the  name  in  gilt,  The 
Nixie. 

"Ah,  yes,"  Vera  says  aloud,  nodding  to  the  Nixie,  "yon 
are  very  pretty,  and  very  smiling,  and  very  deceitful,  just  like 
the  water  itself — mermaids,  and  undines,  and  keli)ies,  and 
the  rest  of  you  fishy  people  always  are.     But  I  wish  1  could 


w 


BEFORE   liKEAKFAST. 


37 


Heaven 

.  She  is 
1  Captain 
;  window, 
s  i)araclis- 
cli  a  (lay. 

perfume 
)(if  sprays 

knowing 


it  to  what 

lis  Eden. 

the  How- 

and  look 


of  might 


I. 


''  Oh  ! 
all,  than 
id  down, 
?p  up  to 
)ored  to 
smiling, 
rilt,  The 

le,  "you 
liust  like 
lies,  and 
1  could 


go  out  in  you,  all  the  same,  and  have  a  sail  before  breakfast. 
I  never  had  a  sail  in  my  life,  before  breakfast  or  after." 

•'  /am  going  out,"  says  a  voice,  '*  this  is  my  boat.  I,  will 
take  you,  if  you  like." 

Vera  looks  around  astonished.  A  man  is  standing  on  the 
bank  above  her,  a  young  man,  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
calmly  regnnling  her.  She  is  not  nervous,  nor  easily  discon- 
certed as  a  rule — she  is  too  much  of  a  child — and  she  is  not 
disconcerted  now. 

*'  Was  I  talking  aloud  ?  I  didn't  know  it.  What  was  I 
saying?" 

He  comes  down  the  bank  and  proceeds  to  unmoor  the 
boat. 

"  That  you  would  like  a  sail  before  breakfast.  I  am  going 
for  a  sail  before  breakfast,  and  1  will  be  delighted  if  you  will 


come. 


The  boat  is  unfastened  now,  the  oars  shipped,  and  he 
stands  waiting.  It  is  a  strong  temptation — how  sunlit,  dim- 
pled, lovely,  the  water  looks.  And  it  is  such  a  i)retty  boat. 
And  it  could  not  be  much  harm.  And  the  woman  who  hesi- 
tates is  proverbially  lost.  She  lifts  her  dark  child's  eyes 
with  all  a  child's  frank  fearlessness,  and  looks  at  him.  He 
is  good-looking,  he  has  pleasant  eyes,  and  a  smile  Vera  likes. 
He  looks  like  a  gentleman.  He  holds  out  his  hand.  "  Come," 
he  says,  and  she  goes. 

"  I  wonder  what  Dot  will  say  ?  "  she  thinks,  "  I  wonder 
what  Dot  will  do  ?  It  cannot  be  much  harm  to  go  for  a  sail. 
I  wonder  who  he  is  ?  " 

Of  the  world  and  its  ways  Vera  knows  nothing,  absolutely 
nothing.  She  is  as  utterly  ignorant  of  Ics  convenances  as 
though  she  were  six  instead  of  sixteen.  This  is  entirely 
new,  and  beyond  measure  delightful,  that  is  all  she  knows ; 
it  smacks  of  adventure,  and  there  has  been  a  dreary  dearth 
of  adventure  in  little  Vera's  life.  And  he  is  very  good-look- 
ing, she  observes,  glancing  sideways  under  her  thick  black 


38 


HE  I' ORE   UREA  k'FAS  T, 


lashes — tall,  and  brown,  and  strong,  with  bright  dark  eyes, 
and  a  subtle  smile.  Subtle,  in  the  sense  that  Vera  does  not 
(luite  understand  it ;  he  has  rather  the  look  of  laughing  at 
lier,  and  she  is  prepared  to  resent  it  if  she  finds  it  so.  lie 
ought  to  say  something  ;  this  silence  is  growing  embarra  s- 
ing.  She  leans  over,  as  every  heroine  she  ever  read  of  does, 
and  dips  her  fingers  in  the  water.  It  is  delighlfiilly  cool,  and 
the  summer  morning  clouds,  like  rolls  of  white  wool,  aie  re- 
flected in  the  clear,  green  depths.  Over  yonder  the  sun,  just 
risen,  turns  all  the  east  crimson  and  flushes  the  girl's  face 
with  rosy  gilded  light. 

"Oh  I  "  she  sighs  aloud,  "  it  is  like  being  in  a  new  world  I 
It  is  like  being  born  again.  I  never  imagined  anything  like 
it.  How  delicious  this  breeze  is,  how  salt  it  smells.  How 
1  wish  Dot  were  here." 

"Who  is  Dot?" 

'*  My  sister.  What  island  is  this?  Oh,  what  a  dear  little 
house  !  And  some  one  lives  in  it  actually,  out  here  in  the 
middle  of  the  ocean.      I,ook  at  the  smoke." 

*' 1  see.  That  is  Shaddock  I-ight,  and  although  a  light- 
house no  longer,  some  one  lives  there.  I  know  the  i)erson, 
and  if  you  like  we  will  sto])  there  before  we  go  back." 

"  Will  you  though  ?  I  should  like  it  of  all  things.  Such 
a  dot  of  a  cottage  ;  I  once  had  a  doll's  ho'i^e  nearly  as  large. 
But  it  must  be  lonely,  I  should  think.  Who  lives  there, 
please?" 

"  Richard  Ffrench." 

"  Richard  Ffrench  ! — Rich — ard  Ffrench  !  "  Vera's  brown 
eyes  open  in  wide  wonder.  "  Mr.  Charlton's  step-son  ?  You 
never  mean  to  say  it  is  tJiat  Richard  Ffrench  ?  " 

Never  heard  of  any  other,  and  he  is  Mr.  Charlton's  step- 


<( 


son. 


Vera  regards  him  gravely  for  a  moment.  The  sail  has  not 
been  hoisted,  he  is  pulling  steadily  against  the  tide,  in  long, 
strong  strokes,  as  if  he  were  enjoying  himself. 


BEFORE   HKEA KEAS  T. 


39 


l;irk  eyes, 
,  c'oes  not 
Lughiiig  at 

so.  He 
ml)arr;i  s- 
d  of  (loos, 

cool,  aiu! 
ol,  aio  re- 
i  sun,  just 
girl's  face 

:w  world  ! 
thing  like 
Is.     How 


dear  little 
ire  in  the 


h  a  light- 
e  person, 


;s.  Such 
as  large. 
;s    there, 


l's  brown 
m  ?  You 

|n's  step- 
has  not 
in  long, 


i 

i 

t 


4 


"  You  know  Richard  Ffrench  ?  " 

««  1  have  tlv't  honor." 

«•  Captain  I'Trench — he  is  a  captain,  is  he  not?" 

"Captain  once,  captain  always,  I  suppose.  He  com- 
manded a  company,  I  believe,  during  the  late  war.  He  is 
generally  dubbed  Captain  Dick." 

«« Well,  then,  Captain  Dick,  being  Afr.  Charlton's  son, 
should  live  at  Charlton  Place,  should  he  not  ?  " 

"  Naturally,  if  he  were  like  any  one  else,  which  he  is  not. 
All  half  civilized  people  have  barbarous  instincts,  and  can 
never  live  in  decent  dwellings.  Ffrench,  for  some  such  rea- 
son, spends  most  of  his  time  here." 

"  What  does  he  do  ?  " 

Ca|)tain  Dick's  accpuiinlance  shrugs  his  shoulders. 

"Who  knows  ?  He  smokes  a  good  deal,  and  loafs  about 
among  the  fishermen.  1  have  never  heard  that  he  does  any- 
thing more  useful." 

"  Is  he  there  now  ?  "  - 

"  Not  likely.  He  goes  home  to  sbjep,  as  a  general  thing, 
though  I  have  known  him  to  spend  nights  at  Shaddeck  Light. 
Your  interest  does  Captain  Dick  much  honor." 

"  Well,  you  see,"  says  Vera,  nowise  abashed,  **  I  am  down 
from  the  city  to  spend  the  summer  at  Charlton,  and  as  I 
have  not  seen  him  yet,  it  is  natural.  One  is  always  inter- 
ested in  the  people  one  is  to  live  with,  you  know." 

"  Undoubtedly.  I  heard  that  two  young  ladies  had 
arrived  by  yesterday's  late  train.  Such  an  event  makes  a 
stir  in  St.  Ann's.  Jiut  it  is  odd  you  have  not  seen  Ffrench. 
I  know  he  went  home  last  night ;  1  saw  him  go." 

*'  He  did  not  think  it  worth  while  coming  to  the  drawing- 
room  then.     Very  likely  it  is  as  Dot  says " 

"  What  does  Dot  sav  ?  " 

'*  Never  mind,"  with  dignity  ;  **  perhaps  being  half-civil- 
ized accounts  for  it." 

"  Or,  perhaps  he  was  afraid.     Two  lovely  young  ladies 


it 


m 


'I 


, 


I 


!  i! 


1  I 


! ; 


•  'I 


40 


BEFORE   BREAKFAST. 


are  very  formidable  sort  of  peoj^le  for  one  bashful  man  to 
encounter,  single-handed  and  alone." 

"  Is  Richard  Ffrench  bashful?" 

"  Painfully  so.  Depend  upon  it,  he  was  afraid,  and 
sneaked  ujistairs  to  bed." 

*'  At  all  events,"  says  Vera,  resentfully,  "  he  was  not 
afraid  of  Miss  Charlton.  From  what  her  mother  said  to 
Dora — to  my  sister — last  night,  he  and  Miss  Eleanor  have 
got  on  remarkably  well.  Not  that  it  matters  at  all.  Cap- 
tain Ffrench's  comings  and  goings  can  be  of  no  consequence 
to  Dot  and  me." 

"  Certainly  not.  Besides,  he  is  going  away  almost  directly, 
and  a  very  good  riddance  I  should  say.  A  great  hulking 
fellow  like  that  is  always  a  mistake  in  a  household  of  young 
ladies.     If /were  in  his  place  now " 

"Ah!"  Vera  says,  mischievously,  "if  you  only  were  ! 
You  are  not  bashful,  are  you?  You  wouldn't  sneak  up 
stairs  to  bed,  would  you  !  "  Her  joyous  laugh  rings  out 
suddenly.  "  I  don't  believe  one  word  you  have  been  tell- 
ing me.  He  isn't  bashful,  he  isn't  hulking,  he  isn't  half  civ- 
iHzed,  he  doesn't  sneak  to  his  room.  I  know  all  about  him, 
and  1  mean  to  like  him.  1  like  him  already.  He  is  a  sol- 
dier, and  I  like  soldiers  ;  he  is  a  hunter,  and  I  love  hunters  ; 
he  is  an  exi)lorer,  and  1  adore  explorers.  Now  what  are 
you  turning  us  round  for?     Are  you  going  back  ?  " 

"  We  are  going  to  visit  the  den  of  your  lion.  He  is  not 
there,  and  so  we  need  not  be  bored  by  his  roarings." 

*'  But  some  one  is,  there  he  is  now." 

"That  is  only  Daddy — the  lion's  keeper.  Take  care  ! 
let  me  help  you.  One  jump — ah,  capitally  done  !  In  Dick 
F'french's  name  I  bid  you  welcome." 

He  throws  open  the  house  door,  waves  back  curious, 
staring  Daddy,  and  follows  her  in.  Vera's  quick,  bright 
eyes  dance  over  everytliing  in  a  second,  and  pounce  upon 
the  picture  on  the  chinmeyq)iece. 


BEFORE  BREAKFAST. 


41 


ihfiil  man  to 


afraid,    and 

he  was  not 
)ther  said  to 
Eleanor  have 
,t  all.  Cap- 
consequence 

nost  directly, 
reat  hulk  in  cr 
3ld  of  young 

only  were  ! 
't    sneak   up 
jh   rings   out 
ve  been  tell- 
n't  half  civ- 
about  him, 
Hie  is  a  sol- 
ve hunters  ; 
w  what  are 

He  is  not 


If^'S. 


"ake    care  ! 
In  Dick 

:k  curious, 
ick,  bright 
II nee  upon 


"  It  is  Eleanor  !  "  she  exclaims,  "  it  is  Miss  Charlton  !  " 

"Is  it  indeed?"  says  the  young  man.  "  Tiien  Miss 
Charlton  is  a  pretty  girl.  Will  you  sit  down  ?  Don't  you 
smell  coffee  ?  Amuse  yourself  with  the  books,  and  1  will 
go  and  get  you  some." 

He  goes.  Vera  watches  him  curiously.  The  coffee  is  a 
ha[)i)y  thought,  it  smells  uncommonly  good,  and  her  water 
trip  has  made  her  painfully  hungry.  In  two  minutes  she 
has  turned  over  every  article  in  the  room — then  her  escort 
enters  with  a  tray  and  a  cup  of  the  fragrant  berry. 

"  I  hope  it  is  to  your  liking,"  he  says,  "  and  strong  enough. 
AVhat  do  you  think  of  Ffrench's  growlery  ?  " 

"  1  J|iink  you  are  very  much  at  home  in  it,"  retorts  Vera  ; 
"  whaf  do  you  suppose  Captain  Ffrench  will  say  to  this  in- 
vasion }  " 

"  Really  I  have  not  troubled  myself  to  suppose.  He 
ought  to  feel  honored — /  would  in  his  place.  I  never  envied 
ail)'  fellow  before  this  morning.  As  to  my  being  at  home, 
I  mostly  am — everywhere." 

So  Vera  thinks.  His  tall  stature  and  broad  shoulders 
seem  to  till  the  little  room.  He  partakes  of  no  coffee  him- 
self— he  obtains  permission  instead  to  light  one  of  Captain 
Dick's  pipes,  two  or  three  dozen  of  which  are  ranged  on 
shelves.  He  sits  on  the  door-step  and  smokes.  The  sun 
is  high  in  the  sky  by  this  time,  and  the  first  crisp  coolness  is 
going  off. 

The  seven  o'clock  bell  rings  in  St.  Ann's  for  the  laborers. 
A  few  little  boats  float  past  on  the  rip|)leless  tide.  Soft, 
limpid  waves  wash  over  the  pebbles,  Sunday  stillness  is 
over  all. 

"  It  is  heavenly  !  "  says  Vera,  with  a  long-drawn  breath. 
It  is  the  third  or  fourth  time  this  morning  that  she  has  made 
the  same  remark,  but  there  is  simi)ly  nothing  else  to  be  said. 
"  I  never  spent  such  a  morning,  but  I  am  ready  to  go  now 
whenever  you  like." 


I        ' 


I !   .  m 


m 


t  f 


:  I 


42 


BEFORE  BREAKFAST. 


Her  companion  rises. 

"Yes,"  he  says,  "it  will  be  as  well  not  to  let  Ffrcnch 
catch  us  here,  and  1  suppose  he  will  be  on  hand  shortly." 

"  Would  he  mind  ?  " 

"  Well,  he  is  something  of  a  bear,  but  it  is  not  that. 
Living  m  the  same  house  he  will  see  enough  of  you  before 
long,  while  1 — I  wonder  if  I  will  ever  see  you  again  ?  " 

"  I  don't  see  why  not,"  re|)lies  straightforward  Vera,  "if 
you  are  Captain  Ffrencivs  friend.  St.  Ann's  and  Charlton 
Place  are  not  such  an  inmiensity  apart." 

"  No.     And   if   I  come    you    will    be    glad   to ]iut 

there  are  three  young  ladies  ;  I  shall  not  know  for  whom  to 
ask." 

He  says  it  innocently,  and  Vera  does  not  see  thd  mali- 
cious gray  eyes  that  are  laughing  at  her,  under  the  straw 
hat. 

"My  name  is  Vera,"  she  answers,  in  all  good  faith,  "and 
— yes — I  think  I — shall  be  glad  to  see  you.  And  1  should 
like  you  to  take  Dot — to  take  my  sister  out  as  well,  the 
next  time.  Her  chest  is  not  very  strong,  and  it  would  do 
her  good.     Will  you  ?  " 

"  Only  too  happy,  if  Miss  Dot  will  do  me  that  honor. 
But  1  am  not  sanguine — you  will  forget  me.  Ffrench  will 
monopolize  you,  the  three  of  you.  No  one  else  will  have  a 
chance.     You  see  I  know  that  fellow." 

"  1  thought  you  said  he  was  bashful,  mortally  afraid  of 
young  ladies." 

*'  Oh,  well,  that  is  only  at  first.  It  wears  off,  and  ihon 
that  sort  of  people  are  the  worst — always  in  extremes.  Bash- 
ful fools,  or  selfish  beasts.  And  then,  you  know  you  like 
him,  you  love  him,  you  adore  him,  and  all  the  rest  of  it. 
No,  1  have  no  hoi)e." 

"Still  I  wouldn't  des[)air  too  soon,  if  I  were  3'ou,"  says 
Vera,  smiling  coquettishly,  the  instinct  awakening  in  her  as 
mouse-murder  awakes  in  the  playful  kitten.       "Come  just 


BEFORE   BREAKFAST. 


43 


Ffrcnch 
ortly." 

not  that. 
3U  before 
I?" 

l^era,  "if 
Charlton 

—     But 


whom  to 

the  mali- 
the  straw 

ith,  "  and 

I  1  should 

well,  the 

kvould  do 

honor, 
■nch  will 
have  a 

ifraid  of 

nd  then 
.  Bash- 
/ou  like 
,t  of  it. 


the  same,  and  we  will  see.  Two  at  a  time,  I  should  diink, 
are  as  many  as  even  Captain  Dick  can  attend  to.  Here  we 
are.  1  never  enjoyed  anything  so  much,  and  I  am  sure  I 
am  very  much  obliged  \.o yon'^ 

"  The  enjoyment  has  been  mine.  Let  me  help  you  up 
the  bank.     Ah " 

The  puzzling  smile  deepens  into  a  laugh.  Vera  follows 
his  eye,  and  sees  coming  toward  them  Mr.  Charlton,  her 
sister,  and  P^^leanor.  They  are  within  the  Charlton  grounds  ; 
Vera's  hat  is  off,  she  is  swinging  it  by  its  rosy  ribbons,  all  the 
soft  silky  curls  are  pushed  off  her  warm  forehead.  Dora,  in 
a  pale  blue  morning  dress,  she  notices  with  pleasure,  is  at 
her  prettiest.  Miss  Charlton  looks  amused  and  surprised,  and 
Mr.  Charlton  beams  upon  her  as  he  draws  near.  Evidently 
she  has  not  done  wrong. 

"  What  !  "  he  says,  "  my  little  Vera,  and  abroad  with  the 
lark — on  a  lark,  if  I  may  say  so.  Your  sister  thought  you 
were  lost,  but  I  knew  better.  And  you  look  like  a  rose 
after  it."  (Vera's  cheeks  are  as  dully  sallow  as  cheeks  can 
well  be.)  "  No  need  to  introduce  jw/f  to  Dick,  I  see;  he 
has  done  it  himself.  Dora,  my  ^loar,  you  have  not  met  him 
—  my  son,  Richard  Ffrench.  Dick,  my  boy,  Miss  Dora 
Lightwood." 

And  then  it  all  flashes  upon  Vera — the  deception,  the 
shameful  deception.  He  has  drawn  her  out,  he  has  taken 
her  in,  he  has  been  laughing  at  her  all  the  morning.  It  is 
Cai)tain  Dick  himself,  and  no  other.  She  turns  ui)on  him  in 
?    'ame  of  wrath — yes,  he  is  laughing  at  her  even  now. 

''  You — you  are  a  wretch  I  "  she  cries,  and  turns  and  runs 
headlong  into  the  house. 


.1,"  says 

her  as 

[ne  just 


i     'I 


44 


AFTER  BREAKFAST, 


MB 


% 


f    i  m 


I  '  i ' 


CHAPTER  VI. 


AFTER    BREAKFAST. 


T  is  two  hours  later,  and  the  hall  thermometer  stands 
at  ninety.  There  is  not  a  breath  stirring,  the  roses 
droop  their  sweet,  heavy  heads,  the  great  beds  of 
geranium  and  gladioli  blaze  in  the  yellow  glare.  The  sea 
off  there  looks  white  and  molten,  the  leaves  of  the  trees 
hang  motionless.  It  is  the  sultriest  of  July  mjrnings,  and 
Vera,  coiled  up  on  the  marble  of  the  wide  hall  floor,  has  laid 
aside  her  indignation  for  the  present,  as  she  has  every  super- 
fluous article  of  dress.  She  projjoses  resuming  both  pres- 
ently, when  the  day  cools  off  a  little,  for  she  feels  she  has 
been  disgracefully  imposed  upon,  but  at  present  it  is  too  hot 
for  dignity.  The  most  ferocious  Corsican  in  such  a  state  of 
the  atmosphere  would  be  obliged  to  forego  vendetta  ;  so, 
though  her  enemy  lounges  within  a  yard  of  her,  Vera  is  in 
too  wilted  a  state  for  vengeance  or  reprisal. 

Miss  Charlton,  in  a  white  dress,  a  white  rose  in  her  hair,  a 
magazine  in  her  hand,  looks  cool  and  fresh  as  a  rose  herself. 
She  is  one  of  the  fortunate  few  who  ahvays  look  cool ;  she 
is  never  flushed,  nor  heated,  nor  freckled,  nor  sunburned. 
She  is  trying  to  read,  but  breaks  off  with  a  smile  to  listen  to 
Vera's  girlish  chatter,  for,  however  warm  this  young  person 
may  be,  she  is  seldom  too  warm  to  talk.  Dora  reclines  on  a 
-lounge,  languidly  fanning  herself  and  monopolizing  Captain 
Ffrench.  Mrs.  Charlton  is  also  'present,  her  ponderous  form 
filling  a  large  wicker  chair,  her  eyes  half  closed  but  all-see- 
ing, silent  but  all-hearing,  her  tight  lips  sealed,  her  eyebrows 
contracted.  She  looks  uncommonly  like  a  fat  fanuly  mouser 
with  eye  and  paw  sharpened,  ready  to  pounce  in  one  sound- 
less  leap  on  her    victim.     This    irreverent   comparison    is 


I 


AFTER  BREAKFAST. 


45 


leter  stands 
g,  the  roses 
:at  beds  of 
:.  The  sea 
>f  the  trees 
rnings,  and 
or,  has  laid 
;very  super- 

both  pres- 
els  she  has 
t  is  too  hot 
\  a  state  of 
detta  ;    so, 

Vera  is  in 

her  hair,  a 
>se  herself, 
cool  ;  she 
iunburned. 
listen  to 
pg  persoh 
[lines  on  a 
Captain 
irons  form 
bt  all-see- 
eyebrows 
[y  niouser 
ne  sound- 
arison    is 


Dora's,  who  with  pale,  pretty  face,  slightly  Hushed,  with  blue 
eves  sliining,  with  rosy  lips  thiiipliiig,  is,  Mrs.  C'h.irlton  fei;ls, 
a  foenian  worthy  of  her  steel.  in  the  door-waj'  the  bone  of 
contention,  the  stalwart  }(Mmg  heir  presumptive,  for  whom 
all  these  fair  women  have  tlonned  plumes  and  war-paint, 
stands,  his  masculine  vanity  elate  and  tickled,  innnensely 
amused  at  tiie  situation,  and  wondering  if  Abdul  Aziz  feels 
anything  like  this  in  the  midst  of  the  harem.  Miss  Light- 
wood  is  certanily  doing  her  best,  and  Dora's  best  is  pretty 
nearly  perfect.  According  to  her  light,  this  young  lady  is 
conscientiously  determined  to  do  her  duty — the  very  utmost 
she  can  do  for  herself  and  her  sister.  For  Dora  Lightwood 
forms  no  plans  in  which  that  gipsy  sister  does  not  share. 

"  I  am  a  selfish  little  brute,"  Dora  calmly  admits,  com- 
muning with  her  own  heart.  *'  I  am  mercenary,  I  am  unscru- 
l)ulous  in  a  good  many  things,  I  have  a  horrid  temi)er,  I 
give  my  whole  mind  to  my  clothes,  1  hate  people,  as  a 
general  thing,  but  I  love  little  Vera,  I  don't  know  why,  I 
am  sure.  I  never  tried  to,  1  never  wanted  to  ;  loving  any 
one  is  a  mistake  ;  all  the  same,  I  am  awfully  fond  of  Vera. 
And  if  a  rich  man  proposed  to  me  and  made  it  a  condition 
that  I  should  part  from  Vera,  why,  I  wouldn't  marry  him.  I 
cannot  say  more  than  that." 

She  cannot.  To  refuse  wealth  for  the  sake  of  any  human 
being  is,  in  her  eyes,  the  higliest  of  all  tests  of  love.  As  she 
lie-,  liere,  in  the  "  golden  bower  "  of  her  fair  floating  hair,  in 
her  pale  blue  wrapper  with  its  delicate  trimmings,  she  is 
busily  building  castles  in  Spain — substantial  castles,  with  a 
French  cook  in  the  kitchen,  a  French  maid  in  my  lady's, 
chamber,  three  toilets  per  diem,  a  house  ui)town,  near  Cen- 
tral Park,  a  pew  in  a  fashionable  church,  horses,  carriages, 
black  drivers  in  livery,  and  Charlton  Place  always,  for  at 
least  three  weeks  every  August,  after  Newport  and  the 
mountains  have  been  "done."  Somewhere  in  the  back- 
ground, faint  and  far  off,  is  a  tall  young  man  of  the  muscular 


n     , 


iii 


:W 


I    !i 


I    'ii 


Mil  iil 


11  'I 


i  i 


lii 

i 


46 


AFTIR   BREAKFAST. 


Christianity  order,  ready  to  sign  unlimited  checks,  and  too 
much  absorbed  in  scientific  things,  and  explorations,  and 
Hugh  Miller's  books,  to  i)ush  himself  unbecomingly  forward 
in  the  way  of  his  wife's  amusements.  And  Vera  shall  go 
to  school  for  a  year  or  ;wo,  to  the  most  exclusive  and  exten- 
sive school  whose  portals  greenbacks  can  unlock,  and  the 
child  shall  walk  in  silk  attire,  and  currency  have  to  spare. 
Then,  when  she  is  tlrished,  they  will  make  the  grand  tour — a 
winter  in  Paris,  a  Carnival  and  Easter  in  Rome,  they  will 
climb  an  Alp  or  two,  and  finish  with  a  season  in  Lon- 
don  

'*  My  dear  Miss  T  ightvvood,"  says  the  suave  voice  of  Mrs. 
Charlton,  "  how  many  years  is  it — I  really  forget — since 
your  father  died  ?  Ah  !  what  a  shock  his  death  was  to  me. 
Jn  youth  we  had  been  so  intimate.  Is  it  eighteen  or  twenty 
now  ?" 

Dora  awakes  from  her  gorgeous  dream.  She  looks  across 
at  her  kinswoman,  more  cat-like  than  ever,  with  her  con- 
tracted eyes  and  feline  smile,  and  is  ready  for  hostilities  in 
half  a  second. 

"  Odd  that  you  should  forget,  is  it  not,  since  you  were 
such  bosom  friends  ?  It  is  precisely  nineteen  years.  Old 
Cat  !  "  Dora  says  inwardly,  "as  if  I  didn't  see  your  drift.  1 
have  kept  big  Dick  Ffrench  too  long,  have  1,  and  your 
Eleanor  is  out  in  the  cold." 

"Ah  !  "  Mrs.  Charlton  responds,  her  ample  bust  swelling 
with  a  fat  sigh,  "nineteen  years.     How  time  flies." 

"  Very  true.  That  is  an  aphorism  I  have  several  times 
heard  before." 

"And  you,  dear  child,  you  were — let  me  see — no,  you 
could  not  have  been  twelve,  because " 

The  malicious  eyes  contract  a  trifle  more  as  they  transfix 
the  audacious  little  flirt  on  the  lounge.  Captain  Ffrench  is 
out  of  his  depth,  but  feels  vaguely  and  alarmedly  that  this 
conversation  is  meant  to  be  unpleasant. 


; 


vS,  and  too 
•ations,  and 
igly  forward 
ira  shall  go 
!  and  exten- 
ick,  and  the 
e  to  spare, 
and  tour — a 
e,  they  will 
)n   in   Lon- 

3ice  of  Mrs. 
)rget — since 
was  to  me. 
:n  or  twenty- 
looks  across 
th  her  con- 
ostilities  in 

e  you  were 

ears.     Old 

ur  drift.      I 

,  and  your 

|st  swelling 
»» 

reral  times 

-no,  you 

;y  transfix 

iFfrench  is 

that  this 


AFTER   BREAKFAST. 


47 


^m 


i*' 


"Because  that  would  leave  me  at  the  present  moment — 
I  am  the  worst  person  at  figures  in  the  world — Cai)tain 
Ffrcnch,  nineteen  and  twelve,  how  much  is  that  ?  " 

"  One-and-twenty,  I  should  say,  in  your  case,"  responds, 
gravely,  Cai)tain  Ffrench. 

"My  father  died,  my  dear  Mrs.  Charlton,"  says  Dora, 
with  a  ripi)ling  smile,  "nine — teen  years  ago.  I  was  at  the 
time  seven  years  old,  only  seven,  I  assure  you  ;  the  family 
]iible  is  still  extant.  Last  birthday  I  was  six-and-twenty. 
Six — and — twenty,  fully  two  years  older  than  Eleanor,  I  do 
believe.  And  then  I  lost  my  poor  dear  mamma  so  early. 
Things  might  have  been  so  different  if  she  had  lived.  It 
must  be  so  nice  to  have  a  mamma  to  look  out  for  one,  to 
point  out  whom  to  be  attentive  to,  and  whom  to  avoid,  in 
this  deceitful  world — to  lay  plans  for  one " 

"  If  one  is  not  capable  of  laying  plans  for  one's  self — very 
true,"  says  the  other  duellist,  firing  promptly.  "  A  mother  in 
many  cases  would  be  a  superfluity.  To  be  tossed  about  the 
world  and  learn  one's  own  sharpness  from  hard  experience 
1  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Charlton,  did  you  address  me  ?  " 

"  Would  you  not  like  to  come  out  and  visit  the  fernery  ?  " 
says  Captain  Ffrench,  hastily,  in  horrible  alarm  lest  this  blood- 
less battle  shall  be  renewed,  "  or — or  is  it  too  warm  ?  " 

"Not  in  the  least  too  warm,"  smiles  Dora;  "  warmth  is 
my  element.  Vera,  hand  me  my  sun-hat,  please.  Nelly, 
dear,  what  are  your  favorite  flowers — I  shall  fetch  you  9- 
bouquet." 

She  ties  the  broad  tulle  hat  over  the  loose  crinkling  hair, 
the  small,  pretty  face,  and  light  blue  eyes,  gleaming  with 
mirth  and  malice. 

'•  It's  a  very  fine  thing  to  be  mother-in-law 
To  a  very  magnificent  three-tailed  Bashaw," 

she  sings  under  her  breath  as  she  goes,  but  Mrs.  Charlton 
hears  her  and  flashes  a  wrathful  glance  after  her  enemy.     She 


i 
I 


!         I  ' 


II  !.l 


ill 


>l 


1^ 


nil      ! 


'  I  li    >'' 


i;i 


48 


AFTER   BREAKFAST. 


has  been  routed  tb.is  bout,  but  liostilities  have  only  com- 
niiiiced  ;  she  feels  she  is  an  old  and  able  veteran,  and  they 
laugh  best  who  laugh  last.  As  she  thinks  it,  Miss  Light- 
wood's  shrill  peal  conies  back  to  her  from  out  the  bla/e  of 
sunshine  into  which  she  goes  witli  Captain  Dick.  Dora's 
laugh  is  not  her  strong  point,  it  is  elfish  and  metallic,  and 
does  not  harmonize  at  all  with  the  rose-hued  mouth  and 
baby  prettiness  of  face. 

"That  horrid  old  woman  !"  she  exclaims,  "  did  you  ever 
hear  anything  so  spiteful,  Captain  Ffrench  ?  And  all  because 
you  hai)pened  to  be  civil  to  me.  Don't  put  on  that  innocent 
face,  sir,  and  pretend  you  don't  know." 

"  J')y  (ieorge  !  "  says  Ca]itain  Dick,  "how  uncommonly 
flattering.  I  must  endeavor  to  distribute  my  civility  with 
more  imi)artiality  hereafter.  You  gave  her  as  good  as  she 
brought,  however,  Miss  Lightwood — that  must  be  a  soothing 
recollection." 

"  It  is,"  answers  Dora,  setting  her  teeth  viciously  ;  "  ever 
since  I  can  remember  I  always  hit  hard."  She  doubles  up 
her  small  fist  instinctively,  and  Captain  Ffrench  eyes  it  with 
gravity. 

"Yes,"  he  says,  "  I  should  think  a  blow  of  that  battering- 
ram  would  settle  almost  any  sort  of  combatant.  But,  perhaps, 
it  is  morally,  not  physically,  that  you  pitch  into  people. 
Moral  whacks  are  so  much  easier  to  bear." 

"  Do  you  tliink  so  ?"  laughs  Dora.  "Judging  by  your 
exceedingly  uncomfortable  expression  a  few  moments  ago,  I 
would  never  think  it.  Honestly,  it  was  in  abominably  bad 
taste  this  pugilistic  encounter  in  your  presence  ;  but  what 
was  I  to  do  ?     You  heard  yourself — it  was  she  who  began  it." 

"And  was  defeated  with  great  slaughter  I  It  was  a  per- 
fectly fair  fight.  Miss  Lightwood,  and  I  rather  enjoyed  it. 
I  bespeak  the  office  of  bottle-holder  when  the  next  match 

comes   off".      For    I    infer   this    contest   for    the "     He 

pauses  and  looks  down  ;  Dora  looks  up,  and  at  the  mutual 


I 


ill  Hlli 


I  m 


■"% 


AFTER  BREAKFAST. 


49 


e  only  com- 

an,  and  ihey 

Miss   l.ight- 

the  blaze  of 

ick.     Dora's 

netallic,  and 

mouth  and 

did  you  ever 
dall  because 
that  innocent 

uncommonly 

J  civility  with 

good  as  she 

be  a  soothing 

Dusly  ;  "  ever 
e  doubles  up 
1  eyes  it  with 

battering- 
put,  perhaps, 
into   people. 

Ing  by  your 
[nents  ago,  I 
|minably  bad 
;  but  what 
lio  began  it." 
was  a  per- 
I enjoyed  it. 
Inext  match 
— "  He 
the  mutual 


glance,    so  full    of  meaning,   both    explode    into   a  frank 
laugh. 

•'  Championship  !  "  says  Miss  Lightwood,  "  for  what  else 
could  it  be  ?  Oh !  Captain  Ffrench,  conceit  is  the  vice  of 
your  sex — beware  of  it.  Is  this  the  fernery  ?  How  cool  and 
green  it  looks  ;  and  a  fountain — is  not  the  plash  of  the  falling 
waters  delicious  ?  That  reminds  me — if  I  get  up  to-morrow, 
will  you  take  me  to  your  enchanted  island,  all  unbeknown 
to  Madame  Charlton  ?  Early  rising  is  not  my  prominent 
virtue,  but  Vera  painted  the  delights  of  her  water  excursion 
in  such  glowing  colors,  that  I  think  it  is  worth  one's  morning 
nap — for  once." 

Captain  Ffrench  protests  he  will  be  only  too  blessed,  too 
honored.  In  reality  he  is  more  or  less  bored.  For  the  past 
half-hour  he  has  been  sighing  inwardly  for  the  sea-girt  seclu- 
sion of  Shaddeck  Light,  his  books,  and  drawing-board.  Not 
that  he  hasn't  enjoyed  the  skirmish  too,  and  the  conversation 
of  this  piquant  little  woman  of  the  world  is  spicy  and  novel. 
Eut  enough  is  enough — of  the  first  principles  of  flirtation  he  is 
absolutely  ignorant ;  he  has  not  had  his  after-breakfast  smoke, 
he  has  not  had  his  every-day,  rain-or-shine,  constitutional 
walk.  He  wonders  what  Eleanor  is  doing.  How  different 
she  is  from  this  pert  (poor  Dot's  ready  audacity  is  pertness  in 
his  eyes),  forward,  sharp-voiced  little  person,  who  talks  so 
much  vapid  inanity.  He  can  see  Eleanor  with  her  slightly 
bent  head ;  her  clear  face,  her  large,  sweet,  serious  eyes, 
thoughtful  and  a  litile  sad.  For  there  is  always  a  touch  of 
sadness  about  Eleanor — why,  he  wonders?  Her  mother 
nags  her,  no  doubt ;  she  is  a  hard  old  vixen,  and  can  be 
deusedly  unpleasant  when  she  likes  ;  but  somehow  he  thinks 
the  trouble  lies  deeper  than  that.  She  has  to  work  hard, 
but  she  has  the  earnest  nature  of  womc  \  who  do  not  shirk 
work,  who  even  find  in  work  their  greatest  solace  when  life 
goes  wrong. 

*•  Poor  girl,"  he  thinks,  and  quite  a  new  sensation  stirs 
3 


I  I 


■1.    Il 


!      t    i' 


'il 


4 


!llil 


41  I 


HI'' 


50 


AFTER   BREAKFAST. 


somewhere  within  Captain  Dick's  broad  chest.  He  is  not 
the  sort  of  man  to  fall  too  easily  a  victim  to  the  tender  pas- 
sion, but  if  he  were,  and  time,  and  propinquity,  and  a  drowsy 
country-house  given,  a  tall  serene  girl,  with  genile  voice  and 

ways,  all  womanly  sweetnesses  and  graces And  then 

the  shrill  treble  of  Miss  J.ightwood  breaks  upon  his  drean),  as 
her  own  was  broken  in  upon  a  while  ago,  and  claims  him  for 
the  time  as  her  own. 

In  the  hall,  Mr.  Charlton,  blandest,  suavest  of  old  time 
gentlemen  and  courteous  hosts,  entertains  Mrs.  Charlton  with 
gossip  about  the  neighborhood,  and  details  of  the  fme  old 
families,  the  Huntings,  the  Deerings,  the  Hovvells,  of  the  old 
Puritan  breed,  who  came  over  from  Connecticut  in  1650  ; 
and  whose  fathers  made  fortunes  in  the  halcyon  days  from 
1828  to  1S45,  when  St.  Ann's  sent  out  her  fleet  of  "blubber 
hunters,"  and  dark-eyed  foreign  sailors  reeled  drunken  about 
its  quiet  streets.  Vera  nestles  near  Eleanor's  chair,  and  re- 
lates her  adventure  of  the  morning,  at  which  Miss  Charlton 
laughs. 

"  Was  it  not  a  horrid  shame  !  "  cries  Vera,  indignantly, 
"  and  I  never  suspected — no,  not  once — he  kept  such  a  vir- 
tuous and  unconscious  face.  He  knew  that  fellow  !  he  was 
a  bashful  fool,  and  he  sneaked  upstairs  to  bed.  Yes,  very 
bashful,  I  should  think  ;  his  modesty  will  prove  fatal  some 
day,  if  he  doesn't  take  care  !  " 

Eleanor  laughs  again. 

"  It  was  unpardonable — it  was,  really.  I  hope  you  did 
not  commit  yourself  to  any  very  awful  extent,  Vera  ?  " 

"  I  asked  him  a  great  many  questions  about  Captain 
Ffrench,  I  know,"  says  Vera,  still  hot  and  resentful,  and  see- 
ing nothing  to  laugh  at  ;  "  and  he  had  not  a  good  word  to 
say  of  hii  iself.  I  dare  say  he  was  right,  it  is  a  subject  on 
which  he  ought  to  be  informed.  Still,"  with  a  sudden  in 
consequent  change  of  tone,  "  I  think  he  is  nice — don't 
you?" 


AFTER  BREAKFAST. 


51 


He  is  not 
I  tender  i)as- 
ind  a  drowsy 
,le  voice  and 
•  And  then 
lis  dream,  as 
aims  him  for 

of  old  time 
Charlton  with 

the  fme  old 
Is,  of  the  old 
lit  in  1650  ; 
>n  days  from 

of"  blubber 
iinken  about 
;hair,  and  re- 
[iss  Charlton 

indignantly, 
t  such  a  vir- 
ow  !  he  was 
Yes,  very 


I 


fatal  some 

,% 

1 

)e  you  did 

9 

ra?" 

•M^ 

It    Captain 

'•'^ 

il,  and  see- 

)d  word  to 

subject  on 

■>i 

sudden  in 

►'1 

ice — don't 

"Very  nice." 

"  And  handsome  ?  " 

"  Well  — rather." 

"And  awfully  clever?  Now  don't  say  you  don't  know, 
because  it  is  patent  to  the  dullest  observer.  He  talks  like  a 
book — when  he  likes." 

"Then  he  doesn't  always  like,  for  I  have  heard  him  when 
he  talked  more  like  Captain  Dick  Ffrench  than  Emerson  or 
Carlyle." 

"  Ah  !  I  don't  know  them.  All  the  same,  he  is  clever. 
He  is  a  musician " 

"He  plays  the  violin  tolerably,  as  amateurs  go." 

"  And  he  draws  beautifully.  And  you  needn't  be  so  criti- 
cal. He  has  your  picture  over  the  mantel  at  Shaddeck 
Light." 

"Nonsense!"  Eleanor's  cheek  flushes  suddenly,  and 
Mamma  Charlton,  with  one  ear  bent  to  her  host,  the  other 
turned  to  her  daughter,  pricks  up  the  near  one  to  catch 
more. 

"It  is  there — nonsense  or  not — a  crayon,  as  like  you  as 
two  peas,  flattered  if  anything.  And  there  is  a  date.  '  New 
Orleans,  May,  1861.'  So  it  seems,  Miss  Slyboots,  you  and 
Captain  Dick  are  very  old  friends." 

"  Oh  !  no,  no.  1  never  spoke  to  him  in  my  life  until  four 
days  ago." 

Vera's  large,  dark  eyes  lift  and  look  at  her.  They  are  eyes 
of  crystal  clearness,  the  one  be>2.uty  at  present  of  her  face, 
down  through  which  you  seem  to  see  into  the  absolute  white 
truth  of  a  child's  soul. 

"  I  am  telling  you  the  truth.  Vera,"  she  says,  her  cheeks 
still  hot,  "  though  you  look  as  if  you  doubted  it.  Some  years 
ago  I  met  Captain  Ffrench  at  a  house  in  New  Orleans,  where 
I  gave  music  lessons.  He  came  with  an  uncle  of  the 
children,  and  they  adopted  him  as  an  uncle  also.  The  mother 
was  a  French  lady.     To  the  children  I  was  simply  Mademoi- 


I! 


il 


I! 


i|    'il'l 

:]    I'   ■! 

|:.r 

1    h  T 


ii 


ll'ill 


w 


52 


AFTER  BREAKFAST. 


selle — he  was  Uncle    Dick.     IJiit   I  never  knew  his  name, 
never  spoke  to  him  till  I  met  him  here." 

Vera  drops  back  on  the  marble.  There  is  a  .shade  of 
annoyance  on  Kleanor's  face,  as  if  half  provoked  at  having 
this  confession  extorted.  Her  mother  is  listening,  unctuous, 
and  well  pleased. 

"  You  evidently  made  a  silent  impression  then,"  says  Vera. 
"  1  said  this  morning,  ' 'I'hat  is  Miss  Charlton's  picture;' 
and  he  said,  'Then  Miss  Charlton  is  a  very  pretty  girl.' 
Here  comes  Dot,  alone  ;  I  wonder  what  she  has  done  with 
him  ?    Dot !     Where  have  you  left  Ca[)tain  '.Trench?  " 

"Am  I  my  brother's  keeper?"  replies  Dora,  sauntering 
in,  a  great  nosegay  in  her  hand.  "  Here  is  your  bouciuet, 
Nelly.  Captain  Ffrench  cut  the  flowers,  and  I  arranged 
them.  I  am  a  milliner,  you  know,  by  profession,  and  have 
artistic  tastes." 

*'  Ever  so  many  thanks — your  taste  is  exquisite." 

"  But  where  is  Captain  Ffrench  ?  "  persists  Vera,  rising  on 
her  elbow,  "you  are  responsible  for  him — he  was  last  seen 
alive  in  your  comi)any.  There  is  no  old  well  out  in  the  gar- 
den, is  there,  that  you  could  drop  him  into,  a  la  Lady  Audley  ? 
And  besides,  he  isn't  a  husband  in  the  way " 

**Vera,  dear,"  says  Dora,  sweetly,  "you  are  horrifying 
Mrs.  Charlton,  with  your  wild  talk  of  husbands.  My  sister 
— she  is  only  sixteen — talks  dreadful  nonsense  sometimes. 
Indeed,  it  is  a  family  failing — not  on  the  Charlton  side,  of 
course." 

"  But,  Captain  Dick — Captain  Dick  !  what  has  become  of 
Captain  Dick  ?  "  reiterates  Vera. 

"  He  has  gone  to  St.  Ann's  for  letters,"  says  Dora,  resum- 
ing her  place  on  the  lounge.  "  As  it  stands  about  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  out  in  the  sun,  you  may  iniagine  how  fascina- 
ting he  finds  your  society,  when  he  prefers  to  it  a  blazing 
three-mile  walk.  Now  don't  talk  to  me,  please,  1  am  going 
to  take  a  nap." 


'$ 


AFTER  BREAKFAST. 


53 


US  name, 

shade  of 
at  having 
unctuous, 

iays  Vera, 
picture;* 

etty  girl.' 

lone  with 

1?" 

launtering 
bouciuet, 
arranged 

and  have 


risnig  on 

last  seen 

n  the  gar- 

Audley  ? 

horrifying 
JMy  sister 
imetiines. 
side,  of 

tcome  of 

|i,  resum- 

)ne  hun- 

fascina- 

blazing 

ini  going 


I 


Which  she  does  almost  at  once,  her  niitc  of  a  hand  under 
her  rose-leaf  cheek,  sleeping  as  a  baby  sleeps,  with  softly 
parted  lips. 

"  How  pretty  your  sister  is,"  E'c  .nor  says,  gently. 

"  Yes,  is  she  not?  "  Vera  answers,  proudly,  "  and  .so  much 
admired  wherever  she  goes.  People  turr  in  the  streets  to 
look  after  her,  and  Madame  Le  Brun  says  she  never  had  a 
forewoman  half  so  popular  before." 

"  Vou  are  not  in  the  least  like  her." 

**  Oh  !  no,  not  in  the  least.  I  am  the  Ugly  Duckling,  you 
know.     There  is  generally  one  in  every  hatching." 

**And,  like  the  Ugly  Duckling,  will  turn  by  and  by  into  a 
stately  swan,"  says  Eleanor,  smiling  down  on  the  dark,  thin 
face,  with  its  great  Murillo  eyes. 

"  No,"  Vera  says,  shaking  her  head  with  a  sigh,  "  such 
transformations  are  only  in  fairy  tales  and  pantomimes.  1 
aui  the  Ugly  Duckling  md  I  shall  never  be  the  swan.  lUit  I 
don't  mind.  1  would  rather  have  Dot  pretty  than  be  pretty 
myself." 

Here  Mrs.  Charlton  rises,  excuses  herself,  and  sails  away. 
Mr.  Ciiarlton  departs  to  write  letters  in  his  study,  Eleanor 
resumes  her  magazine,  and  Vera  lapses  into  a  day-dream, 
still  coiled  on  the  floor.  The  day-dream  changes  gradually 
into  a  real  dream,  in  which  she  is  floating  over  sunlit  seas 
with  Captain  Dick,  past  fairy  isles  all  dotted  with  small  gray 
houses,  until  they  finally,  and  rather  unexpectedly,  come  to 
anchor  somewhere  in  the  npper  part  of  Fifth  Avenue,  before 
Mrs.  Trafton's  front  door.  Captain  Dick  moors  his  craft  to 
the  brown-stone  steps,  and  is  going  up  to  ring  the  bell, 
when ■ 

"Three  for  the  governor,"  says  the  pleasant  voice  of 
Captain  Dick,  in  the  flesh,  "  one  for  you,  Miss  Ciiarlton,  and 
half  a  dozen  for  myself.  None  for  you,  Miss  Lightwood, 
none  for  you.  Miss  Vera,  although  I  suppose  it  is  rather 
soon  for  your  five  hundred  to  begin." 


i'i:  i 

ft '  ' 

'il  i 

'■iv  I 


i  ; 


!! 


■I  I 


!i    i 


m 


I'i 
ii 


>.fi  -^''' 


54 


AFTER  BREAKFAST. 


Vera  rubs  her  eyes,  and  sits  up.  He  hands  Eleanor  her 
letter,  and  Dora,  who  is  also  awake,  sees  with  one  quick, 
keen  glance,  that  the  writing  is  a  man's. 

"1  did  not  expect "  Eleanor  begins  in  surprise.     Then 

her  voice  falters,  fails,  she  looks  at  the  envelope,  and  grows 
pale.  She  lifts  her  eyes,  and  casts  an  anxious  glance  at 
Captain  Dick,  but  his  countenance  is  impassive.  Her  letter 
is  postmarked  St.  Ann's,  the  chirography  unmistakably  mas- 
culine, but  there  is  no  curiosity  in  his  face. 

"  I  must  deliver  the  governor's,"  he  says,  and  goes.  Miss 
Charlton  rises  slowly,  and  goes  upstairs.  Dora's  eyes  fol- 
low her.  The  surprise,  the  falter,  the  pallor,  the  postmark 
— Dora  has  seen  all.     Dora  has  eyes  that  see  everything. 

"  Now  I  wonder  what  you  are  about  ? "  muses  Miss 
Lightwood,  *' aiid  who  our  unwelcome  correspondent  is? 
Are  you  a  fiery  Southern  lover  come  to  guard  your  own,  or 
are  you  a  little  bill  ?" 

Little  bills  are  the  bane  of  Dora's  life,  but  this  is  no  dun. 
It  is  short  and  affectionate  enough  to  establish  the  accuracy 
of  Miss  Lightwood's  first  guess.     And  it  closes 

"  I  know  you  will  resent  my  disobeying  orders,  but  resent  or  not, 
I  must  see  you.  Do  not  be  too  hard  on  a  poor  devil,  Nelly — it  is  eight 
months  since  we  met.  See  you  I  simply  miist.  I  will  be  on  the  other 
side  of  the  boundary  wall  (where  Mr.  Charlton's  peach-trees  flourish) 
about  seven  this  evening.  I  will  wait  until  nine,  as  I  don't  know  the 
Charlton  dinner  hou*-.  Do  not  fail.  I  expect  a  scolding,  but  a  scold- 
ing from  you,  my  darling,  will  be  sweeter  than  words  of  honey  from 
another.  E.  D." 


IN  THE    COOL    OF   THE  EVENING. 


55 


anor  her 
e  quick, 

I.  Then 
d  grows 
;lance  at 
[er  letter 
ibly  nias- 

:s.  Miss 
eyes  fol- 
)ostinark 
:hing. 
ses  Miss 
dent  is? 
own,  or 

;  no  dun. 
accuracy 


it  or  not, 

-it  is  eight 

tlie  other 

flourish) 
I  know  the 

a  scold- 
mey  from 
E.  D." 


CHAPTER   VII. 


IN   THE    COOL    OF   THE    EVENING. 


L'JV^JS^AY  has  passed,  evening  has  begun.  It  is  six  o'clock, 
and  the  white  quivering  heat  is  s]:)ent,  a  breeze 
rises  fresh   froni   the  Atlantic,  flutters  every  lace 


curtain,  ard  blows  through  every  open  window  and  door  of 
the  fine  old  Charlton  Mansion.  Over  in  St.  Ann's  the  noises 
of  the  day  are  done  ;  down  in  the  warm-flushed  west  the  sun 
• — who  has  nobly  done  his  duty  all  day,  and  baked  the  earth 
to  powder — is  sinking  out  of  sight.  The  flowers  lift  their 
hanging  heads,  there  is  a  rustle  and  a  flutter  through  all  the 
leafy  trees,  the  birds  chirp  as  they  go  to  roost,  and,  revived 
by  siesta  and  bath,  the  ladies  of  the  household  in  the  dusky 
seclusion  of  their  chambers  are  robing  for  the  great  event 
of  the  day — of  all  our  days — dinner. 

"  Dot,"  says  Vera,  tiptoing  around,  and  straining  her  neck 
to  get  a  view  of  the  small  of  her  back,  where  she  wishes  to 
plant  a  bow,  "  I  am  afraid  it  is  of  no  use.  I  am  afraid  it  is 
to  be  Eleanor." 

"  What  is  of  no  use  ?  "  asks  Dora,  for  this  remark  has 
been  made  (like  the  generality  of  Vera's  remarks)  apropos 
of  nothing.  But  she  smiles  too,  as  if  she  understood.  Their 
rooms  adjom,  the  door  of  communication  is  open,  and  both 
are  before  their  resi)ective  mirrors. 

"About  Captain  Ffrench.  Bother  this  sash!  1  can't  get 
it  to  come  straight.  I  think  he  must  be  falling  in  love  with 
her.  Dot.  He  has  her  picture,  as  I  told  you,  over  there  in 
that  funny  little  light-house,  and  he  has  a  way  of  looking  at 
her What  are  you  laughing  at  ?  " 

'"At  your  perspicuity,  dear,  at  your  profound  knowledge 
of  the  ways  and  manners  of  Richard  Ffrench.     This  big, 


M  J 


56 


IN  THE   COOL    OF   THE  EVENIMG. 


x^   - 


;!    '  .91 


'd!  ■' : 


11 


solemn  Dick  who  thinks  we  are  all  dying  for  him.  So  you 
are  convinced  I  have  no  chance  ?  " 

"  Well,"  says  Vera  reluctantly,  "  you  see  everything  was  in 
her  favor.  You  did  not  have  a  fair  start,  Dot.  Eleanor  was 
here  three  days  ahead,  and  a  good  deal  can  be  done  in  three 
days "  Vera  breaks  off,  for  Dora  is  laughing  immoder- 
ately. The  simplicity,  the  earnestness  of  little  Vera  are  too 
comical. 

*'  Vera,  child,  you  will  be  the  death  of  me !  Do  you 
really  think  I  have  come  down  here  to  marry  Dick  Ffrench 
— if  I   can.     What   a  humiliating  idea.     Not   but  that   it 

would  be  worth  while "     She  glances  wistfully  out  over 

lawn  and  garden,  green  glade,  and  dense  shrubbery.  '*  Yes, 
it  would  be  worth  while,  and  what  I  can — I  will  do." 

"  Worth  while  ?  "  repeats  Vera,  "  I  should  think  so.  It 
is  like  the  Garden  of  Eden.  Old  Mr.  Charlton  must  be 
awfully  rich.  Dot." 

"  A  millionnaire,  my  child." 

"  Ah  !  "  sighs  Vera — a  long-drawn  sigh,  "  a  millionnaire  ! 
What  a  rich,  respectable,  beautiful  sound  that  has.  And  to 
be  the  step-daughter-in-law  of  a  millionnaire,  or  even  the  half- 
sister  of  the  step-daughter-in-law.     What  bliss  !  " 

"  Are  you  not  getting  things  a  little  mixed  ?  "  Dora  in- 
quires, but  Vera  pays  no  attention.  The  bow  is  tied  now, 
geometrically,  on  her  spinal  column,  and  she  is  leaning  with 
folded  arms  on  the  sill,  half  out  of  the  window.  A  great  wis- 
teria trails  with  its  purple  plumes  all  about  the  casement,  and 
makes  a  setting  for  the  black  curly  head  and  brown  mignon 
face. 

"  There  he  is  now  ! "  she  exclaims,  involuntarily.  Cap- 
tain Dick  perhaps  hears,  for  he  looks  up.  He  takes  off  hig 
hat,  tikes  out  his  cigar,  and  puts  on  a  penitent,  an  agonized 
expression. 

"Am  I  forgiven?"  he  asks,  imploringly.  "If  you  only 
knew  the  day  of  misery  I  have  passed,  with  a  sin  repented 


^• 


IN  THE   COOL   OF   THE   EVENING. 


57 


So  you 

ig  was  in 
anor  was 
in  three 
mmoder- 
1  are  too 

Do  you 

Ffrench 

t  that   it 

out  over 

"  Yes, 

M 

:  so.     It 
must  be 


onnaire  ! 
And  to 
the  half- 

'ora  in- 
ed  now, 
ling  with 
Ireat  wis- 
:nt,  and 
mignon 

Cap- 
off  hig 
jonized 

)U  only 
[pented 


of,  but  unpardoned,  on  my  conscience  1  And  the  tocsin  of 
the  soul  is  about  to  sound — be  merciful  while  there  is  yet 
time.  How  am  I  to  consume  lamb  and  mint  sauce,  wither- 
ing under  your  displeasure  ?  " 

Dora  does  not  catch  Vera's  shrilly  indignant  rejoinder — 
she  is  too  far  out  of  the  window.  The  conscience-stricken 
one  down  below  wears  an  aspect  of  desolation,  and  tries  a 
second  appeal,  this  time  with  more  success.  Vera  is  relent- 
ing, to  judge  from  the  softened  tone  of  her  voice — the 
remorse  of  the  culprit  is  not  without  its  effect.  Then — "  I 
wish  you  would  come  down,"  says  Captain  Dick,  still  mildly 
plaintive.  "  I  haven't  a  soul  to  speak  to,  and  I  am  never 
more  alone  than  when  alone.     Come." 

*'  Come  into  the  garden,  Maud,"  sings  Vera  ;  "it  is  more 

than  you  deserve,  still "     There  is  a  swish  of  silk,  a  waft 

of  wood  violet — Vera  takes  the  last  three  stone  steps  with  a 
iump,  and  is  at  Captain  Ffrench's  side. 

Dora  watches  them  with  a  vfcll  satisfied  smile  until  they 
disappear. 

"Yes,"  she  thinks  again.  "It  would  be  worth  while. 
And  then  the  satisfaction  of  out-manoeuvring  that  old  double- 
chinned  witch  of  Endor.  My  age,  indeed !  The  imperti- 
nence of  trying  to  make  me  out  thirty-one,  in  Dick 
Ffrench's  presence.  Eleanor  is  to  be  princess  consort,  and 
she  is  to  reign  monarch  of  all  she  surveys  at  Charlton.  Ah, 
well !  "  Miss  Lightwood  nods  to  her  own  pretty  face  in  the 
glass;  "  this  is  to  be  a  drawn  battle,  and  all  I  ask  is  a  fair 
field  and  no  favor.  I  will  back  myself  to  win  against  Elea- 
nor Charlton  any  day,  in  spite  of  the  picture  in  the  light- 
house, and  her  three  days'  start  in  the  race." 

Miss  Lightwood,  looking  very  charming  in  one  of  the  cos- 
tumes purchased  with  the  three  hundred  dollars,  goes  down- 
stairs and  finds  her  host  and  Mrs  and  Miss  Charlton 
already  there.  Vera  and  Captain  Dick  are  still  absent,  but 
somewhere  near,  for  Vera's  joyous  laugh  com*^     ^very  now 


1  ■'* 


V  III 


'ill 


58 


IN-   THE   COOL    OF   THE  EVENING. 


i  (i'1 


!^i' 


and  then,  mingled  with  the  boom  of  Dick's  mellow  bass. 
Presently  they  appear,  a  sort  of  laurel  crown  adorning  the 
Cai)tain's  hat,  and  Vera  looking  like  a  young  Bacchante 
with  clusters  of  trailing  grape  tendrils  tangled  in  her  dark, 
crisp  hair. 

"  Let  us  crown  ourselves  with  roses  before  they  fade," 
quotes  Captain  Dick.  '*  Miss  Vera  has  given  me  brevet  ^ 
rank — the  laurel  wreath  which  posterity  holds  in  store  for 
me  has  been  anticipated.  Peace  is  restored,  we  have 
buried  the  hatchet,  we  have  smoked  the  pipe — two  or  three 
pipes — of  peace " 

"Speak  for  yourself !"  retorts  Vera.  "/don't  smoke, 
although  I  am  half  a  Cuban.  We  have  not  kept  you  wait- 
ing, have  we  ?     It  is  all  Captain  Dick's  fault." 

Mrs.  Charlton  frowns.  Vera  is  not  the  rose,  but  she 
grows  near  that  dangerous  flower.  And  whatever  the  heir's 
sentiments  towards  the  elder  sister  may  be,  his  liking  for  the 
younger  has  been  patent  from  the  first. 

"How  admirably  Captain  Ffrench  and  Vera  get  on,"  she 
says  smilingly,  as  she  goes  into  dinner  with  her  host,  and 
Mr.  Charlton  laughs  in  his  genial  way. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  says,  "  Dick  was  always  remarkably  fond 
of  children.     And  she  is  really  a  bright  little  sprite." 

"  She  is  sixteen  years  old,"  says  madam  sharply,  but  the 
hint  is  lost.  They  are  in  the  dining-room,  and  all  other  pro- 
jects merge  themselves  in  dinner.  It  is  a  large  apartment, 
cool  and  airy,  with  a  carpet  like  greenest  moss,  pictures 
of  fruit  and  flowers  on  the  tinted  walls,  sea-green  silk  and 
frosted  lace  curtains.  The  appointments,  the  silver,  the 
glass,  the  courses  are  excellent.  The  Charlton  cook  may 
not  be  a  cordon  bleu,  but  she  understands  her  art,  and  the 
result  is  eminently  satisfactory.  It  is  years,  Dora  thinks, 
with  a  deep  sigh  of  complacency,  since  she  has  dined  before. 
She  has  eaten  to  live — no  more.  Something  of  an  epicure, 
in  addition   to  her  other  virtues,  is  Miss  Lightwood.     Her 


;"»!'-,  ■■i..iiiJi^Ji.wi-|-!..jj;jyg 


IN  THE    COOL    OF    THE  EVENING. 


59 


low  bass, 
rning  the 
Jacchante 
her  dark, 


ey  fade," 
e  brevet 
store  for 
we  have 
)  or  three 

t  smoke, 
you  wait- 
but  she 
the  heir's 
ig  for  the 

on,"  she 
lost,  and 

3ly  fond 

3ut  the 
ler  pro- 
artnient, 
)ictures 
ilk  and 
/er,  the 
ok  may 
ind  the 
thinks, 
before, 
epicure, 
Her 


artistic  taste  takes  in  with  real  pleasure  the  snowy  nai)ery, 
the  tall  cpergne  of  choice  flowers,  the  ruby  and  amber  tints  of 
the  wines. 

Mr.  Charlton  is  a  very  king  of  hosts,  an  ideal  old  time 
gentleman,  genial  and  mellow  as  his  own  vintages,  honoring 
all  women  with  old  time  chivalry,  and  with  an  Arab's  idea  of 
the  virtue  of  hospitality.  Mrs.  Charlton,  in  the  place  of 
honor,  is  paying  unconscious  compliments  to  the  skill  of  his 
chef,  and  for  the  moment  both  eyes  and  attention  are  com- 
pletely absorbed.  Oi)posite  sits  Eleanor,  whom  Dora  re- 
gards with  considerable  curiosity.  She  is  paler  than  usual, 
she  eats  little,  a  more  than  ordinary  troubled  expression 
saddens  the  gentle  eyes.  By  Dora's  side  is  Cai)tain  Ffrench, 
and  while  he  lends  a  careless  ear  to  her  gay  sallies,  she  sees 
with  inward  rage,  that  his  eyes  wander  perpetually  to  Elea- 
nor. He,  too,  observes  the  cloud,  but  it  never  occurs  to  him 
to  connect  it  with  the  letter  of  a  few  hours  before.  It  is  her 
nagging  old  mother,  he  thinks,  who  is  fretting  the  poor  girl 
to  death.  He  is  character  reader  enough  to  guess  pretty 
clearly  what  sort  of  a  Tartar  Mrs.  Charlton  can  be,  when  she 
likes.  A  great  compassion  fills  him.  In  the  love  of  some 
men,  the  element  of  pity  is  an  absolute  essential ;  the  instinct 
of  protection  must  be  the  kindler  of  the  flame.  Ricliard 
Ffrench  is  one  of  these.  His  passion  is  not  very  profound, 
perhaps,  as  yet,  but  if  Eleanor  Charlton  were  the  most  design- 
ing of  coquettes,  she  could  not  advance  her  interests  half  so 
surely  in  any  other  way.  As  he  sits  here  he  would  like  to 
come  between  her  and  all  life's  troubles  and  toils,  to  shield 
her  from  work,  and  sorrow,  and  nagging,  forevermore.  And 
Dora's  bright  blue  eyes  read  his  face,  and  his  thoughts,  as  he 
sits  beside  her,  like  a  printed  page.  Indeed,  less  sharp  orbs 
might,  for  the  print  is  very  large. 

"  Stui)id  idiot !  "  she  thinks,  "  these  big  fellows,  all  brawn 
and  muscle,  are  sure  to  be  besotted  about  pensive,  die-away 
damsels,  and  their  lackadaisical  airs.     As  if  any  one  could 


6o 


IN  THE   COOL    OF   THE  EVENING. 


,f      ' 


:   iijir 


II  'lii 


hi:'ll:- 


not  see  it  was  all  put  on  with  her  dinner  dress.  She  has 
studied  him  well  enough,  it  seems,  to  know  that  the  secret 
sorrow  sort  of  thing  is  safe  to  go  down." 

Dessert  is  over,  the  ladies  rise  and  go.  There  is  British 
blood  in  the  Charlton  veins,  and  Mr.  Charlton  likes  and 
honors  the  ancient  custom  of  lingering  over  the  walnuts  and 
the  wine,  after  his  womankind  depart.  To-day  iie  has  a 
word  or  two  besides  for  his  step-son's  private  ear. 

*'  Well,  Dick,"  he  says,  "  and  how  do  you  like  them  ?  " 

He  pushes  the  claret  towards  the  younger  man,  who  is  ab- 
stemious by  instinct,  and  prefers,  even  after  dinner,  a  clear 
head  to  a  muddled  one.  Captain  Ffrench,  peeling  a  peach, 
lifts  his  straight  eyebrows. 

"  That  goes  without  saying,  does  it  not  ?  A  man  can  have 
but  one  opinion  concerning  three  charming  girls." 

"  Let  us  count  out  the  dowager  and  the  young  one,"  says 
Mr.  Charlton,  good  humoredly.  "  That  little  Light  wood  is 
pretty  as  a  rosebud." 

"Prettier,  I  think,"  says  Captain  Dick. 

"  But  Miss  Charlton — ah  !  there  is  dignity,  and  beauty, 
and  grace  combined,  if  you  like." 

Richard  Ffrench  laughs  lazily. 

"  The  precise  remark  Mr.  Vincent  Crummies  made  when 
he  first  saw  Mrs.  Vincent  Crummies  standing  on  her  head. 
I  wonder  who  she  takes  it  after  ? — Miss  Charlton,  I  mean, 
— not  Mrs.  Vincent  Crummies.  Her  father  must  have  been 
rather  a  fine  fellow,  I  should  judge.  A  man  may  be  a  good 
fellow  in  the  main,  and  yet  write  himself  down  an  ass  matri- 
monially." 

Mr.  Charlton  chuckles. 

"  Hard  on  the  dowager,  Dick.  Well !  a  great  deal  of  her 
would  be  wearing,  I  dare  say.  But  you  must  allow  she  is  a 
remarkably  well-preserved  woman  for  her  years." 

' '  Both  pickled  and  preserved,  I  should  say,  sir.  You 
have  no  immediate  intention  then,  I   conclude,  from  your 


"iiuL.Bi.inwaiB— — »a» 


IN  THE    COOL    OF   THE  EVENING. 


6i 


when 
head. 

imean, 
been 
good 

Imatri- 


)f  her 
|e  is  a 

You 
your 


J 


dispassionate  way  of  speaking,  of  inflicting  upon  me  a  step- 
mother? " 

"Hey!" 

*'  Because  I  think  her  ideas  run  a  little  in  that  groove. 
Cliarlton  is  a  fine  place,  and  you  are  an  uncommonly  fine- 
looking  elderly  gentleman,  governor." 

This  is  carrying  the  war  into  Africp  with  a  vengeance.  Has 
Dick  foreseen  and  forestalled  his  communication  {  For  a 
moment  he  is  nonplussed-  -then  he  laughs. 

"  Rubbish,  Dick  !  Nothing  so  absurd  could  ever  enter 
any  head  but  one  addled  over  '  OUendorfs  Spanish.'  But, 
speaking  of  matrimony — what  do  you  suppose  I  have  brought 
those  girls  down  here  for  ?  " 

"  It  is  plain  to  the  dullest  intelligence.  To  select,  at 
your  leisure,  a  mistress  for  Charlton,  and  a " 

•'  Wife  for  you.     Exactly,  Dick.     Now  which  shall  it  be  ?  " 

"  My  dear  governor !  " 

"  Which  ?  Eleanor  you  have  known  a  week — knew  long 
ago,  in  fact.  And  Dora  you  have  seen  enough  of  to  ascer- 
tain  " 

"  That  she  is  an  extremely  charming  girl,  with  whom  I  in- 
tend to  have  nothing  to  do  !  Let  me  offer  you  this  dish  of 
apricots,  sir;  they  are  nearly  perfect." 

'*  Then  it  is  to  be  Miss  Charlton  ?  My  dear  boy  ;  it  is 
precisely  what  I  would  have  wished.  She  is  all  any  man 
could  desire — well-bred,  well-looking,  gentle,  good,  and  the 
best  of  Charlton  blood.  Dick,  you  are  a  trump  I  Let  me 
congratulate  you." 

He  stretches  his  hand  across  the  table.  His  step-son 
places  his  in  it,  but  under  amused  protest. 

"  My  dear  governor !  really  this  is  very  embarrassing. 
What  have  I  said  to  commit  myself  to  this  serious  extent  ? 
I  have  a  sort  of  married  man  feeling  already,  and  upon  my 
life  I  don't  wish  to.  Things  can't  rush  on  in  this  summary 
way — you  mustn't,  you  know." 


C>2 


IN   THE    COOL    OF    THE  EVENING. 


(  , 


.    ! 


I  I' 


^ti|!!il 


ti   ih  ijiijij 


lliil 


» 


"  I)ick,  listen  to  me — seriously,  I  beg.  The  one  desire  of 
my  life  is  to  see  you  settled." 

"Then  your  desire  is  gratified,  sir.  Nothing  could  be 
more  flatly  settled  than  I  feel  at  this  moment." 

'*  To  see  you  settled,"  goes  on  Mr.  Charlton,  with  some 
emotion,  "  with  an  estimable  wife.  Nothing  else  will  do  it, 
Dick." 

"Are  you  sure  that  will,  governor?"  doubtfully.  "Of 
nujitial  bliss  I  know  nothing,  but  1  have  known  married 
men,  and — well,  to  escape  too  much  conjugal  felicity,  I  have 
known  them  to  rush  '  anywhere,  anywhere,  out  of  the  world.' 
My  friend  P^nglehart  has  a  wife — I  say  no  more." 

"Your  friend  P^nglehiirt  has  a  pernicious  influence,"  ex- 
claims Mr.  Charlton,  hotly  ;  "  but  for  him  you  would  never 
have  thought  of  this  wild  goose  chase  to  Central  America. 
It  was  he  that  induced  you  to  go  with  the  Arctic  Exploration 
party.  Is  the  recollection  of  blubber  and  seal  oil  so  savory 
that  yoi!  long  to  be  at  it  again  ?  " 

"  No,"  Dick  answers,  "as  a  steady  diet,  I  don't  pine  for 
blubber  or  seal  oil  ;  but  in  the  Honduras  affair " 

"Which  you  will  never  join,  with  my  consent!"  cries  Mr. 
Charlton,  growing  red. 

"  Now,  my  dear  sir,"  expostulates  Dick,  "  consider.  I 
stand  pledged  to  Dr.  Englehart  and  the  rest  of  the  Scientific 
Cori)s.  It  is  true  they  miglit  replace  me,  but  I  know  they 
would  rather  I  went ;  and  even  if  I  could  bear  to  disappoint 
them,  like  Tony  Lumpkin,  I  could  not  bear  to  disa])point 
myself.  It  is  uncommonly  kind  of  you,  I  know  ;  I  appre- 
ciate fully  the  affection  that  makes  you  desire  to  retain  me ; 
but  you  see,  governor,  I  am  an  adventurer,  a  rolling  stone,  or 
nothing.  If  I  stayed  here  I  would  turn  into  a  veritable  molly- 
coddle, I  would  spoil  in  too  much  sunshine  and  sweetness.  I 
am  a  restless  animal  by  nature.  I  must  have  a  safety-valve 
of  some  kind,  and  what  could  be  safer  than  Honduras  and 
silver-mining?     When  I  wished  to  join  the  Cailists " 


-^ 


IN    THE    COOL    OF   THE  EVENING. 


63 


desire  of 

;oukl   be 

ith  some 
/ill  do  it, 

y.     "  Of 

married 

y,  I  have 

e  world.' 

nee,"  ex- 
ild  never 
America, 
cploration 
so  savory 

:  pine  for 

cries  Mr. 

sider.     I 

IScientific 

now  they 

isai)point 

|isa])point 

I  ai)pre- 

|tain  me  ; 

stone,  or 

lie  molly- 

Itness.     I 

ty-valve 

.iras  and 


"  You  gave  up  that  mad  idea  to  please  me..  Give  up  this 
other,  my  boy,  marry  Nelly,  and  stay  at  home." 

"  Isn't  that  taking  a  great  deal  for  granted,  sir  ?  It  is  one 
thing  for  Miss  Charlton  to  accept  your  invitation  and  spend 
a  few  weeks  here,  (juite  another  for  her  to  accept  wt'." 

Mr.  Charlton  snnles  significantly. 

•'  Is  'hat  all  ?  Try  and  see.  You  are  a  tall  and  proper 
fellow,  Dick,  an  eligible  parti,  as  the  ladies  put  it ;  I  wouldn't 
be  too  modest,  if  I  were  you.  Come  !  I'm  fond  of  you,  my 
lad,  you  know  that ;  to  keep  you  with  me  is  the  one  desire 
of  my  life.  You  are  my  heir — all  I  have  is  yours  ;  make  the 
old  man  happy,  and  remain  with  him.  When  I  fell  into  this 
property,  it  was  not  for  my  own  sake,  my  dear  boy,  1  rejoiced, 
but  for  yours.  Of  course,  in  my  will,  I  shall  not  forget  these 
good  little  girls,  who  have  come  here  at  my  bidding — some 
of  my  blood  is  in  their  veins  ;  but  you  are  the  heir,  you 
are  my  son.  You  are  listening,  Dick?  And  great  wealth 
brings  great  responsibilities.  1  am  growing  too  old  for  re- 
sponsibility— stay  and  lift  the  load  from  my  shoulders. 
Write  to  this  fellow  Englehart,  curb  your  roving  i)ropen- 
sities,  cease  to  be  a  rolling  stone,  marry  Miss  Charlton,  or 
whomever  you  please — only  stay  with  your  old  father, 
Dick." 

"  My  dear  sir,"  Dick  says,  and  can  say  no  more.  He  is 
more  moved  than  he  cares  to  show,  but  touched  as  he  is,  the 
thought  of  giving  up  the  Central  America  project  gives  him 
a  keen  i)ang.  He  rises  and  goes  over  to  the  window,  impa- 
tient with  himself.  "  I  must  be  an  unfeeling  dog,"  he  thinks. 
"  Any  one  else  would  yield  at  half  this  pleading.  And  yet 
what  an  utterly  good-for-nothing  life  I  shall  lead  here." 

"Well,  Dick  !"  Mr.  Charlton  says,  following  him  with  an 
anxious  countenance. 

"  I'll  try,  sir,"  Dick  Ffrench  says,  turning  round  ;  "  don't 
press  me  too  hard.  I'll  do  what  I  can.  Nature  has  made 
me  a  vagabond,  and  you  can't  transmute  one  of  that  frater- 


Iii 


64 


IN  THE   COOL    OF    THE  EVENING. 


nity  into  a  respectable  family  man  at  once.  But  for  your 
sake " 

Mr.  Charlton  grasps  his  hand,  tears  in  his  old  eyes. 

"  (lod  bless  you,  Dick — God  bless  you.  I  knew  you 
would,  you  have  too  much  of  your  mother  in  you  to  grieve 
wilfully  any  one  who  loves  you.     And  Eleanor " 

"  Ah  I  never  mind  that,  governor.  One  thing  at  a  time. 
And  now  1  will  leave  you  to  join  the  ladies  alone — I  want  a 
smoke  and  half  an  hour  to  think  all  this  revolution  over." 

He  opens  the  window,  and  steps  out.  The  lovely  sum- 
mer gloaming  yet  lingers,  although  the  moon  is  rising.  Sweet 
scents  greet  him,  utter  stillness  is  around  him.  He  turns 
into  the  entrance  avenue,  dark  already  under  its  arching 
trees,  with  a  sense  of  loss  and  depression  upon  him,  keen 
and  strong.  To  give  up  a  life  of  bright  adventure,  of  cease- 
less change,  of  scientific  research,  the  society  of  men  bril- 
liant of  intellect,  good  comrades,  and  indefatigable  explor- 
ers, for  an  existence  humdrum  and  monotonous  to  a  degree, 
without  excitement  or  object  from  year's  end  to  year's  end 
— it  is  no  light  thing  Mr.  Charlton  has  demanded  of  Richard 
Ffrench.  As  to  Miss  Charlton — but  he  is  out  on  the  high 
road  now,  and  gives  up  the  conundrum  for  the  present. 

"  It  is  Kismet,  I  suppose,"  he  thinks,  gloomily,  "  and 
nothing  remains  but  to  cover  my  face,  and  die  with  dignity. 
I  shall  be  a  round  peg  in  a  square  hole,  all  the  rest  of  my 
life.  Well,  I  will  have  the  majority  for  company  at  least — 
I  wonder  if  that  is  the  man  who  called  upon  me  the  other 
day  at  Shaddeck  Light  ?  I  ought  to  know  that  negligently 
graceful  walk." 

The  man  disappears  as  he  looks,  and  Captain  Ffrench 
saunters  on.  It  is  past  eight ;  in  the  warm  stillness  of  the 
summer  evening,  the  ripple  of  the  sea  on  the  shore  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  off,  can  be  heard.  Under  the  peach-trees  by  the 
southern  wall  the  man  takes  his  stand,  and  looks  at  his 
watch. 


IN   THE   COOL    OF    THE  EVENING. 


65 


for  your 

s. 

lew   you 

0  grieve 

a  time. 

1  want  a 
ver." 
^ly  sum- 
;.  Sweet 
ie  turns 

arching 

im,  keen 

of  cease- 

nen  bril- 

;  explor- 

i  degree, 

jar's  end 

Richard 

he  high 

bnt. 

,    "and 

dignity. 

st  of  my 

least — 

e  other 

rligently 

Ffrench 
of  the 
quarter 
by  the 
at  his 


*'  A  quarter  after  eiglit,  by  Jove  !  "  he  says  ;  "  but  it  is 
the  deuce  and  all  of  a  walk  1  If  any  one  had  told  me  a  year 
ago  that  I  would  walk  three  miles  on  a  hot  July  evening  to 
see  any  young  woman  in  the  universe,  and  that  young 
woman  objecting  in  the  strongest  way — ah  !  well,"  with  a 
sigh,  "  Call  no  man  wise  until  he  is  dead." 

In  the  drawing-room  the  gas  is  lit,  and  Vera  at  the  piano 
is  singing.  At  a  table  near  sits  Mrs.  Charlton  and  her  host, 
absorbed  in  chess. 

Eleanor,  near  an  open  window,  holds  a  book,  but  does 
not  read.  She  is  restless  and  nervous,  starting  at  ^\^xy 
sound,  preoccupied  and  distrait.  Dora  sees  it  all.  Dora, 
half  buried  in  a  big  chair,  with  a  strip  of  embroidery  in  her 
hand. 

A  clock  strikes  eight.  Ivliss  Charlton  rises,  lays  aside  her 
book,  and  passes  through  the  open  window.  No  one  notices 
except  Dora,  and  Dora  glides  to  the  window  and  watches 
her  out  of  sight.  Where  is  she  going  ?  Was  the  letter  an 
assignation  ?  Miss  Lightwood  feels  she  must  know  or  per- 
ish. She  follows  Miss  Charlton  deliberately,  unseen,  un- 
heard, and  presently  es])ies  her  at  the  other  end  of  the 
grounds,  where  the  ornamental  garden  ends  and  the  orchard 
begins.  A  low  stone  wall  and  high  hedge  separate  the  Charl- 
ton grounds  from  the  common  land,  and  on  the  other  side 
of  the  wall,  leaning  lightly  upon  it,  Dora  sees  what  she 
knows  she  will  see,  what  she  hopes  she  will  see — a  man. 

"  Aha  ! "  cries  Miss  Lightwood,  in  triumph,  "  the  pale,  the 
pensive,  the  perfect  Eleanor,  makes  and  keeps  assignations. 
The  great  Dick  may  be  stupid  and  pig-headed,  but  I  wonder 
what  he  will  say  to  this  ?  " 


66 


BY  THE  LIGHT  OF   THE  MOON. 


1    '' 


CIIMTKR   VIII. 

rtY    TfTK    LIGHT   OF   THE    MOON. 

^11  Is  moon  of  the  siiinnier  night  has  risen  red  and 
round,  while  yet  in  the  west  the  opal  briUiance  of 
closing  day  lingers.  lint  even  with  this  warm 
after-glow  on  her  face,  Dora  sees  that  Isieanoris  fixedly  pale 
as  she  goes  to  the  place  of  tryst.  Tiie  man's  face  she  cannot 
see — a  broad  straw  hat  shades  it,  and  he  stands  well  within 
the  shadow  of  the  trees.  She  herself  is  hidden  among  some 
clustering  evergreens — for  fruit  trees  and  forest  trees  seem 
to  grow  indiscriminately  in  the  Charlton  orchard.  She 
stands  here  a  moment  irresolute — curiosity  and  malice  com- 
bined, are  tempting  her  terribly.  Honorable  in  any  way, 
Dora  is  not ;  unprincipled  in  all  small  matters,  she  is,  to 
an  extraordinary  degree.  As  a  general  thing,  eavesdropping 
is  not  worth  the  trouble — to-night  it  is.  If  Eleanor  really 
has  a  lover,  and  is  out  of  tlie  race,  what  remains  for  her  but  a 
(juiet  "  walk  over."  Still  this  may  be  some  near  and  obnox- 
ious relative  ;  she  has  read  of  such  things,  and  somehow 
Eleanor  Charlton  does  not  seem  the  sort  of  girl  to  have 
clandestine  lovers.  In  Dora's  eyes  she  is  at  once  an  artful 
coquette,  and  a  prude  of  the  first  order.  If  she  could  but 
hear  !  how  earnestly  they  seem  to  converse — it  is  too  pro- 
voking to  stand  here  and  lose  all  that.  She  will  run  the 
risk — her  dress  is  dark,  and  soundless — she  ;«//j-/hear. 

And  now  you  know  what  manner  of  woman  Theodora 
Lightwood  is.  She  tiptoes  close,  her  heart  beating  with  ex- 
pectation, draws  her  drapery  closely  about  her,  leans  her 
head  well  forward,  and  deliberately  listens. 

Eor  a  moment  she  can  hear  nothing  but  a  low  nnirnun' — 
it  is  Eleanor  who  is  speaking,  and  at  all  times  Miss  Charlton 


I 


4 


BV   THE   LTGirT  OF   THE  MOON. 


^7 


I  red  ami 

liance  of 
lis   warm 
edly  pale 
le  cannot 
ell  within 
)ng  some 
COS  seem 
d.       She 
ice  com- 
any  way, 
>he  is,  to 
dropping 
or  really 
her  but  a 
:l  obnox- 
;omehow 
to  have 
m  artful 
)iil(l   but 
:oo  pro- 
run  the 
ir. 

leodora 
,vith  ex- 
ms    her 

irnuir — 
Iharlton 


has  a  low  voice.  It  is  even  more  subdut.'d  than  usual  now, 
but  in  its  accents  Dora  knows  there  is  distress. 

"'{'hat  is  all  ([uite  true,"  the  man  says  coolly  ;  "  what  is 
the  use  of  reminding  me  of  it  ?  You  may  be  a  frost-maiden, 
Nelly,  a  marble  Diana,  with  every  waywatd  Mnpulso  well  in 
hand,  but  you  see  I  am  only  mortal — very  UK'-.al,  my  dear, 
and  1  could  not  keep  away.  Come,  forgive  me.  If  I 
loved  you  less  I  might  find  obedience  more  easy." 

Eleanor  speaks,  and  again  Dora,  straining  every  nerve, 
loses  her  reply.     lUit  the  man  breaks  in  impatiently. 

"  Dishonorable  !  clandestine  !  as  if  1  came  sneaking  here 
from  choice — as  if  I  would  not  go  up  to  the  front  door,  and 
ring  the  bell,  and  demand  to  see  my  betrothed  wife,  before 
the  whole  Charlton  conclave,  if  you  would  but  let  me.  But 
there  is  your  mother,  and  I  am  detrimental,  and  Kfrench 
is  the  heir,  and  son  of  the  house.  You  might  as  well  yield 
first  as  last,  Nelly,  njy  dear.  I  am  a  poor  devil,  gootl  for 
nothing,  with  no  prospects  for  years  to  come,  and  this  fellow, 
Ffrench,  is  heir,  they  say,  to  two  or  three  millions.  It  is 
only  a  question  of  time;  you  cannot  hold  out.  VV  ,  both 
know  perfectly  well  why  your  mother  has  brought  you  here. 
It  would  be  madness  not  to  take  the  goods  the  gods  provide, 
and Where  are  you  going  ?  " 

"Back  to  the  house,"  Eleanor  answers,  indignantly.  "I 
shoidd  never  have  come.  Every  word  you  utter  is  an  In- 
sult. If  you  can  think  this  of  me,  it  is  indeed  time  we  should 
part." 

"  Oh  !  forgive  me,"  he  cries  out,  a  real  passion  in  his 
tone,  "  1  am  a  brute.  No,  I  do  not  doubt  you  ;  you  are 
true  as  steel,  true  as  truth  ;  but  when  I  think  of  the  differ- 
ence  Nelly,  you  must  despise  me — how  can  you  help  it, 

such  a  useless  drone  as  I  am,  lounging  through  life  without 
aim,  or  energy,  or  ambition  ?  1  despise  myself  when  1  wake 
up  enough  to  feel  at  all.  If  I  had  a  spark  of  generosity,  I 
would  force  you  to  accept  your  freedom — and  this  Ffrench 


68 


BY  THE  LIGHT  OF   THE  MOO.V. 


\X 


>:lili 


! 

1  i 

.  |:i| 

1     ■  i' 

1 
i 

! 

1 

.ill 

is  a  fine  fellow  too — biif  I  am  not  generous  ;  I  love  you  as 
strongly  as  a  stronger  man  might  do,  and  I  cannot.  But  I 
will  give  up  this  idle  life,  I  swear  it,  Nelly.  I  will  try  and 
make  myself  worthy  of  you.  Only  give  me  time,  dear,  try 
and  trust  me,  and — and  don't  listen  to  Richard  Ffrench.  He 
will  ask  you  to  marry  him — how  can  he  help  it  ?  He  is 
fond  of  you  already ;  he  has  your  picture  over  there  in  that 
hut  among  the  rocks.  Keep  him  off,  Nelly,  don't  let  your 
mother  influence  you,  don't  marry  him  for  his  money.  Wait, 
wait,  wait,  and  the  day  will  come " 

A  branch  on  which  Dora  breathlessly  leans,  breaks.  ^  '• 
the  sharp  crash  Eleanor  starts  up  hastily,  and  the  culpri;, 
stilling  her  very  heart-beats,  crouches  low.  The  darkness 
of  the  evergreens  protects  her,  the  moonlight  flooding  the 
open  with  pale  glory,  does  not  pierce  here.  Bu*:  she  loses 
what  follows.  When  she  is  sufliciently  reassured  to  listen, 
it  is  Eleanor  who  is  speaking. 

"  No,"  she  says,  resolutely,  **  no,  again  and  again.  You 
must  not  write,  you  must  not  call,  you  must  not  come  here. 
You  must  leave  St.  Ann's  to-morrow.  Oh  !  if  you  cared  for 
me  would  you  compromise  me  in  this  way  ?  If  you  knew 
the  shock,  the  pain,  your  letter  gave  me,  the  shame  1  feel 
at  meeting  you  like  this.  But  it  must  not  be,  it  never  shall 
be  again.  You  will  go  and  we  will  wait.  You  ask  me 
to  trust  you  ;  I  have — I  do — I  always  will.  If  you  failed 
me,  Ernest,  how  could  I  live  ?  You  know  what  my  life  is, 
dreary  enough.  Heaven  knows,  but  I  think  of  you  and  the 
years  to  come,  and  I  wait  and  hope.  But  I  will  meet  you 
no  more,  and  you  must  go.  You  need  fear  no  rival  in  Cap- 
tain Ffrench  ;  if  he  cared  for  me  I  should  know  it  His 
heart  is  in  his  profession,  his  exploring  mania  is  the  grand 
passion  of  his  life.  I  like  him — he  is  a  brave  and  gallant 
gentleman,  but  I  belong  to  you.  I  can  never  belong  to  any 
one  else." 

"  My  brave,  loyal  Nelly  ! " 


£r  THE   LIGHT  OF   THE  MOON. 


69 


>ve  you  as 
t.  But  I 
ill  try  and 
,  dear,  try 
jnch.  He 
?  He  is 
fre  in  that 
't  let  your 
;y.    Wait, 

aks.  ^  '■ 
le  culpril, 

darkness 
>oding  the 
♦;  she  loses 

to  listen, 

.in.      You 

pme  here. 

cared  for 

you  knew 

nie    1  feel 

ver  shall 

I  ask  me 

ou  failed 

ly  life  is, 

and  the 

meet  you 

1  in  Caji- 

it       His 

Ihe  grand 

[1  gallant 

^g  to  any 


Dora,  peeping  through  her  leafy  screen,  sees  him  take  both 
her  hands.  They  are  evidently  about  to  part,  and  she  has 
not  seen  him  once.  The  thick  drooping  boughs  that  screen 
her  do  the  same  good  office  for  him.  Another  moment  and 
they  have  parted.  Eleanor  moves  quickly  towards  the 
house,  Dora  shrinks  noiselessly  back  in  her  green  covert. 
The  man  lingers  until  she  is  out  of  sight,  then  turns  and 
walks  slowly  away. 

For  a  few  minutes  Miss  Lightwood  remains  in  her  retreat, 
triumph  swelling  her  heart.  She  has  no  rival  to  fear  then — 
she  has  only  to  play  her  cards  cleverly,  and  the  game  is  her 
own.  How  fair  Charlton  looks  by  moonlight,  the  tall  urns 
gleaming  like  silver,  the  high  black  trees  looking  a  primeval 
forest  in  the  uncertain  light.  Such  a  lovely  home  for  her 
and  Vera,  such  freedom  from  toil,  such  exemption  from  care, 
such  a  luxurious  life.  1  think  if  Dora  could  have  prayed, 
she  would  have  knelt  down  there,  and  prayed  for  success. 
But  prayer  is  not  much  in  her  way — of  the  earth,  earthy  she 
is  to  the  core.  Eat,  drink,  and  be  merry,  for  to-morrow  you 
die,  and  death  is  at  the  end  of  all  things,  in  Dora's  creed. 
Marry  rich,  and  spend  his  money — these  are  the  two  great 
duties  of  every  woman's  life. 

Captain  Ffrench  has  not  returned  when  Miss  Charlton  re- 
enters the  drawing  room.  Vera  is  still  amusing  herself  at 
the  piano — she  has  a  sweet  voice,  and  plays  cleverly.  The 
chess-players  are  engrossed  with  queens  and  castles.  Dora's 
absence  she  does  not  notice. 

"  *  I  don't  pretend  to  teach  the  age,'  " 


sings  Vera  in  a  spirited  voice 


*' '  It's  mission,  or  its  folly, 

A  task  like  that  requires  a  sage— 
My  disposition's  jolly.'  " 


;o 


BY  THE  LIGHT  OF   THE  MOON. 


1   V 


•H    i   ililllHi 


\fA 


"  Oh,  Nelly ! "  she  cries,  turning  round,  "  Is  that  you  ? 
Have  you  seen  Dot?  1  thought  you  had  both  gone  out  to 
be  sentimental  together  in  the  moonlight." 

"  Is  Dot  not  here  ?  "  Plleanor  asks.  "  No,  I  have  not 
seen  her — we  have  not  been  together." 

"  Then  perhaps  she  is  with  Captain  Dick  ;  he  has  disap- 
peared as  well.  It  is  a  heavenly  night,  and  1  would  have 
gone  out  too,  but  I  didn't  want  to  play  gooseberry.  Are  you 
going  again  ?  " 

"  1  am  going  upstairs.     Good-night,  dear." 

"Good-night,  Nelly,"  the  girl  responds. 

While  Eleanor  goes  up  the  broad  carpeted  stairway,  she 
can  hear  the  fresh  happy  young  voice  : 

"  *  And  what  is,  after  all,  success  ? 
My  life  is  fair  and  sunny. 
Let  other's  covet  Fame's  caress ; 
Pm  satisfied  with  money.'  " 

The  old  story,  Eleanor  thinks,  even  from  this  little  girl's 
innocent  lips.  Is  wealth,  then,  life's  highest  aim  ?  At  ail 
events,  the  lack  of  it  mars  many  a  life.  She  goes  to  her 
room,  but  she  does  not  light  the  lamp,  or  go  to  bed.  It  is 
only  ten,  as  she  can  see  by  her  poor  little  silver  watch,  and 
her  recent  interview  has  banished  all  desire  for  sleep.  She 
wishes  she  had  never  come  here,  but  her  mother  so  insisted 
— it  looks  so  horribly  like  a  deliberate  attempt  to  ensnare 
Richard  Ffrench.  Does  he  think  she  has  come  for  ti^at  ? 
Her  cheeks  burn  at  the  thought.  Were  it  not  for  this  draw- 
back, a  few  weeks  in  this  pleasant  country  liouse,  with  its 
gracious  host,  its  rest  from  the  weary  tread-ijiill  of  her 
teacher's  life,  would  be  unspeakably  invigoratuig.  But  if 
Captain  Ffrench  thinks  that 

Her  door  opens,  her  mother  enters. 

"  In  the  dark,  Eleanor  ?  "     Even  in  her  blandest  w*oments, 
Mrs.  Charlton's  voice  has  a  rasping  quality.     "  V^Hiat  a  lovely 


, 


>. 


BY   THE  LIGHT  OF   THE   MOON. 


71 


I  at  you  ? 
ic  out  to 

bave  not 

as  disap- 
uld  have 
Arc  you 


way,  she 


ttle  girl's 
At  all 
to  her 
It  is 
Ltch,  and 
erp.  She 
insisted 
ensnare 
bi-  tliat  ? 
is  draw- 
>vii,h  its 
^f  lier 
a  I  if 


(oments, 
a  lovely 


\ 


night.  Where  were  you  and  Captain  Ffrench  wandering  all 
evening?" 

*'  I  was  not  with  Captain  Ffrench,"  Eleanor  answers,  her 
heart  lluttering  guiltily.     "  1  have  not  seen  him  since  dinner." 

"  No  ?  "  sharply,  "  where  then  did  you  go — alone  ?  " 

"  It  is  such  a  lovely  night,  mother.  Will  you  not  sit 
down  ?  " 

"  Was  Dora  Lightvvood  with  you  ?  " 

"No." 

^^  Not  with  you.     Was  she  with  Richard  Ffrench  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know.     Very  probably." 

There  is  silence — uncomfortable,  ominous  silence.  Elea- 
nor feels  through  every  tingling  nerve,  that  a  storm  is  brew- 
ing, and  braces  herself  to  meet  it. 

"  Eleanor,"  her  mother  begins,  in  a  deep,  repressed  voice, 
"what  does  this  mean?  Are  you  deliberately  resolved  to 
thwart  me  ?  Are  you  mad  enough  to  fling  away  the  one 
great  chance  of  your  life  ?  Are  you  going  to  give  Richard 
Ffrench  to  Dora  Lightwood  ?  Wait !  "  as  Eleanor  is  about 
to  speak,  "  I  do  not  want  any  evasions,  any  shuffling,  any 
beating  about  the  bush.  It  is  in  your  power  before  you  quit 
Charlton,  to  quit  as  the  affianced  wife  of  its  heir,  if  you  will. 
From  Mr.  Charlton's  own  lips,  to-night,  have  I  learned 
this." 

Her  daughter  looks  at  her.  The  issue  has  come,  the 
truth  njust  be  told.  Mrs.  Charlton  has  a  fine  furious  temper, 
a  bitter  bad  tongue  ;  who  should  know  that  better  than  her 
luckless  daughter?  And  Eleanor  shrinks  quivering  from  the 
ordeal,  but  she  never  falters  in  her  resolve. 

"  From  Mr.  Charlton's  own  lips,"  repeats  Mrs.  Charlton, 
emphatically.  "It  seems  he  spoke  to  Dick  at  dinner,  and 
Dick  gave  him  to  understand  that — that  '  Barkis  was  will- 
in',  '  "  with  a  grim  attempt  at  facetiousness.  "  He  admires 
yoti,  it  seems,,  more  than  he  ever  admired  any  one  before  ; 
at  the  slightest  encouragement  he  is  ready  to  speak.     He 


■ii 


M 


i   i 


72 


iffK  T'HE  LIGHT  OF   THE  MOON. 


is  an  excellent  young  man,  a  little  wild,  as  I  said,  about  a 
roving  life,  but  without  a  single  vice.  He  has  good  manners, 
good  looks,  a  fine  education,  and  acknowledged  talents. 
Now  what  can  you — what  can  any  one  want  more  ?  " 

Silence. 

"  You  will  be  one  of  the  richest  women  going ;  all  your 
drudgery  will  be  at  an  end.  You  will  have  a  home  where  I 
can  close  my  days  in  the  peace  and  comfort  I  always  was 
used  to  in  other  times.  Alfred  can  go  to  Germany  to  study 
music  "  (Alfred  is  a  juvenile  son  and  brother,  down  in  New 
Orleans),  **  and  Mr.  Charlton  says  you  will  make  the  happi- 
ness of  his  life.  Nothing  could  be  more  affectionate  than  his 
manner  of  speaking  of  you.  My  dear,  it  was  a  red-letter  day 
in  your  life,  in  all  our  lives,  the  day  we  came  here." 

Silence. 

"Eleanor,"  the  rasping  voice  takes  a  rising  inflection, 
*'  do  you  hear  ?  " 

"Yes,  mother,  I  hear." 

**And  have  you  nothing  to  say?  In  wy  youth  girls  an- 
swered their  mothers." 

"  What  do  you  wish  me  to  say  ?  " 

Mrs.  Charlton  is  growing  exasperated — always  an  easy 
thing  for  Mrs.  Charlton.  Eleanor's  voice  is  full  of  repressed 
feeling,  but  it  sounds  cold  in  her  mother's  ears,  her  hands  are 
tightly  locked  in  her  lap,  but  her  mother  does  not  see.  She 
fixes  her  hard  stare  on  Eleanor's  shrinking  face. 

"  Will  you — or  will  you  not,"  she  slowly  says,  "  marry 
Richard  Ffrench  ?  " 

"I  will  not  I" 

"  You  will  not  ?  " 

"  I  will  not.  Mother,  I  cannot.  Do  not  be  angry,  do 
not  scold — oh  !  do  not !     It  is  impossible." 

'« Why— if  I  may  ask  ?  " 

The  storm  is  very  near,  distant  thunder  is  in  every  tone, 
sheet  lightning  in  every  glance. 


ids  are 
,     She 

marry 


fry,  do 


tone, 


BY   THE  LIGHT  OF   THE  MOON. 


73 


"  I  do  not  care  for  him.  I  never  can  care  for  him,  and  I 
must  love  the  man  I  marry." 

Mrs.  Charlton  lauglis — u  horrid,  rasping,  little  laugh,  full 
of  rage. 

"  Love  !  Care  for  him  !  Oh  !  you  fool  !  To  think  that 
any  girl  of  three-and  twenty,  obliged  to  work  like  a  galley- 
slave,  should  talk  such  rot.  You  mean  then  to  tell  me, 
deliberately  and  in  cold  blood  to  tell  me,  that  when  this 
young  man  asks  you,  you  will  say  no  ?  " 

"  I  will  say  no." 

She  is  trembling  from  head  to  foot  with  repressed  excite- 
ment, but  she  will  not  tlinch.  There  is  blank  silence  for  a 
moment — then  the  storm  bursts.  And  such  a  storm  !  Mrs. 
Charlton  is  a  virago,  a  vulgar  virago  ;  she  has  never  curbed 
anger  or  rage  in  her  life  ;  she  has  a  tongue  like  a  two-edged 
sword.  Eleanor  has  seen  her  in  her  rages  often,  but  never 
quite  at  white  heat  until  to-night.  She  bows  before  the 
tempest,  she  quails,  she  hides  her  face  in  her  hands,  fear, 
shame,  disgust,  shaking  her  as  a  reed. 

"Oh!  mother!  mother!"  she  gasps  once,  "for  the  love 
of  Heaven  !  "  but  her  mother  pays  no  heed.  The  tornado 
must  spend  itself,  and  does. 

As  eleven  strikes,  she  strides  out  of  the  room,  banging  the 
door  with  a  last  wooden  "damn,"  and  the  contest  is  ended 
for  to-night.  For  to-night.  Alas  !  Eleanor  knows  too  well, 
that  to-morrow,  and  all  the  to-morrows,  and  until  the  end  of 
her  life,  she  will  never  hear  the  last  of  this.  She  lays  her 
folded  arms  on  the  window,  and  her  head  upon  them,  as 
though  she  never  cared  to  lift  it  again.  As  she  lies,  white 
and  spent,  she  hears  Vera  singing,  going  along  the  passage 
outside : 

"  '  Alas  !  how  easily  things  go  wrong  ; 
A  sigh  too  much,  or  a  kiss  too  long.' 


"  I  wonder  if  Nelly  is  asleep- 


the  voice  breaks  off  in 


74 


BY  THE  LIGHT  OF   THE  MOOJ^. 


i 


soliloquy.     "  Here  is  a  kiss  through  the  keyhole,  asleep  or 

awake. 

"  '  And  there  follows  a  mist  and  a  sweeping  rain, 
And  life  is  never  the  same  again,'  " 

The  voice,  fresh  and  clear  as  a  skylark's,  ceases,  a  door 
shuts.  Vera  is  in  her  room.  Then  stillness.  Then  down  on 
the  lawn  below,  voices — the  shrill  treble  of  Dora,  and  the 
deeper  tones  of  Captain  Ffrench. 

Coming  home  at  his  leisure,  a  little  after  eleven,  Captain 
Ffrench  finds  Miss  Lightwood  lingering  out  of  doors,  enjoy- 
ing the  midnight  moonlight  and  coolness.  A  shadow  still 
rests  on  the  captain's  brow;  he  has  accepted  his  fate — none 
the  less  he  finds  it  hard. 

"  What !  "  Dora  cries,  lifting  her  pale  eyebrows,  "  alone  I 
Where  is  Nelly  ?  " 

"Miss  Charlton?     I  have  not  seen  her." 

"  Not  seen  her  ?  "  Dora  knits  her  brows.  "  Oh  !  but  that 
is  nonsense,  Captain  Ffrench.  I  saw  her  with  you  not  an 
hour  ago." 

"  I  assure  you,  no.  I  have  not  seen  Miss  Charlton  since 
dinner." 

"  No  ? "  Dora  repeats,  and  now  the  blue  artless  eyes 
open  wide.  *'  Who  then  could  it  have  been  ?  1  made  sure 
it  was  you." 

"  I  do  not  understand." 

"  She  has  no  gentlemen  acquaintances  in  St.  Ann's — she 

told  me  so ;  and  yet  that  letter  this  morning Captain 

Flrench,  1  believe  you  are  jesting  with  me — it  w/wj/have  been 
you." 

"  Miss  Lightwood,  I  am  still  *  far  wide.'  Awfully  stupid  of 
me,  but  upon  my  word,  I  don't  understand  a  syllable  you  are 
saying.  Something  about  Miss  Charlton,  is  it  not  ?  She  has 
not  been  with  me  ;  1  have  not  seen  her  since  we  parted  after 
dinner.     Where  ii?  she  ?    Nothing  has  gone  wrong,  I  trust  ?  " 


>'■  «,>v«' 


since 

eyes 
le  sure 


ipid  of 
oil  are 
he  has 
.1  after 
ust?" 


IN  THE   LIGHT  OF   THE  MOON. 


75 


(< 


"Where  is  she?"  repeats  Dora,  in  a  puzzled  tone  ;  "in 
her  room,  perhaps.  I  do  not  know  ;  she  has  not  been 
with  us  all   the  evening.     Captain    Ffrench,  it  is  the  oddest 

thing You  know  that  cluster  of  peach-trees  over  there 

by  the  orchard  wall  ?  " 

He  nods. 

*'  Well,  an  hour  ago,  I  was  roving  through  the  grounds, 
tempted  out  by  the  beauty  of  the  night.  I  chanced  to 
pass  near  the  peach-trees,  and  I  saw  Eleanor  standing 
there,  talking  across  the  wall  to  a  man.  I  was  sure  it  was 
you,  and " 

]iut  Captain  Ffrench  understands  her  now,  and  starts  up. 

•'Not  another  word  I  "  he  says.  "  I  beg  your  pardon — 
but  I  did  not  comprehend.  Will  you  not  take  cold  out  here 
in  the  dew  ?  it  is  falling  heavily.  Have  all  the  good  people 
gone  to  bed  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  so."  Dora  bites  her  lip  angrily.  Fool  he  is 
not,  but  he  has  made  her  feel  like  one,  and  she  is  beginning 
to  hate  him. 

"Then,  I  think  I  shall  follow  their  example;"  he  strug- 
gles for  a  moment  with  a  yawn.  "At  what  hour  to-morrow 
shall  I  expect  you,  Miss  Lightwood  ?  I  and  the  Nixie  will 
be  at  your  service  from  five  o'clock." 

For  a  second  she  is  tempted  to  decline,  but  discretion  is 
the  better  part  of  valor.  Dora  has  this  advantage  over  Mrs. 
Charlton,  she  has  her  pride  and  her  temper  well  in  hand. 

"  Oh,  that  is  an  unearthly  hour,"  she  says  with  her  shrill 
laugh.     "Say  half-past  six  ;  I  never  can  be  ready  sooner." 

"  Half-])ast  six  then.  Good-night,  Miss  Lightwood,"  and 
without  ceremony  he  goes. 

Dora's  work  is  done ;  the  beauty  of  the  night  has  ceased 
to  tempt  her.  But  she  stands  a  moment,  and  it  is  no  loving 
glance  she  casts  after  the  tall  captain.  She  follows  slowly, 
ascends  to  her  room,  the  sleepy  housekeeper  Histens  doors 
and  windows,  and  silence  reigns  within  and  without. 


isV''->% 


f 

i 


76 


HOW  THE   GAME   WAS  MADE. 


Vera  lifts  a  dark  head  from  her  pillow,  and  opens  two 
sleei)y  dark  eyes. 

"  Is  it  you,  Dot  ?  at  last.  What  a  time  you  have  been. 
You  were  with  Captain  Dick,  weren't  you  ?  Isn't  he  sj)len- 
did  ?  Oh  !  how  sleepy  I  am  !  "  a  great  yawn.  "  And  this 
is  the  end  of  our  first  day,  such  a  long,  delightful  day  !  Dot, 
I  never  want  to  leave  Charlton  as  long  as  I  live." 

She  is  asleep  as  she  says  it.  Her  sister  stoops  and  kisses 
her. 

"And  you  shall  not,  little  Vera  !  "  is  her  answer. 


11 


(»: 


::1 


1 


lllf  V 


CHAPTER  IX. 


HOW  THE   GAME   WAS   MADE. 


FORTNIGHT  has  passed,  fourteen  long,  sunny, 
summer  days.  One  after  another  they  dawn  and 
darken  ;  morning  after  morning  the  sun  rises  in 
fiery  splendor,  baking  the  earth,  and  sky,  and  grass,  and 
human  beings,  until  the  eye  grows  weary  of  the  perpetual 
dazzle,  and  longs  for  gray  shadows,  and  drifting  clouds,  and 
the  refreshing  patter  of  rain.  No  rain  has  fallen  all  the 
fourteen  days,  no  clouds,  except  long  white  mare's  tails,  and 
billows  of  translucent  white,  have  floated  over  the  brilliant 
blue  of  the  sky.  But  August  is  here,  the  sultriness  is  inde- 
scribable, and  as  before  dawn  it  is  darkest,  so  at  its  hottest, 
it  must  cool  off.  Changes  in  sky,  and  sea,  and  land,  pro- 
claim that  a  mid-summer  tempest  is  at  hand,  and  that  kindly 
showers  will  soon  refresh  the  quivering  earth. 

At  Charlton  Place,  life  goes  on  with  little  outward  change 
or  incident,  but  each  in  her  way,  and  very  quietly,  all  these 
good  people,  according  to  their  light,  are  making  their  little 
game. 


"1 


HO  IV  THE   GAME    WAS  MADE. 


77 


lange 

Ihese 

little 


The  heat  prevents  much  going  abroad,  but  in  the  early 
morning,  and  dcw}'  evenings,  Captain  Dick  devotes  himself 
to  his  step-father's  fair  guests,  like  the  gallant  gentleman  he 
is.  There  are  long  rows  and  sails,  in  the  pink  dawn,  and 
the  white  night,  long  drives  or  rambles  in  the  starry  twilight, 
a  picnic  once  out  in  the  woods  behind  St.  Ann's,  visits  to 
Shaddeck  Light,  where  lengthy-limbed  Daddy  reigns  alone. 
For  Captain  Ffrench  has  jjretty  well  thrown  aside  scientific 
books,  and  charts,  and  drawings — if  he  is  to  give  up  Hondu- 
ras, what  are  all  these  things  but  bitterness  of  spirit  ?  There 
has  been  a  dinner  party  at  which  the  nobility  and  gentry  of 
St.  Ann's  have  mustered  strong — the  Howells,  the  Deerings, 
the  Sleights — all  the  landed  proprietors  have  been  bidden, 
and  have  come.  There  have  been  a  few  innoxious  high 
teas,  perpetual  croquet,  a  good  deal  of  piano-playing,  and 
unlimited  flirtation.  For  during  August,  young  men  come 
to  St.  Ann's  and  fish  up  in  the  hill-side  tarns,  drive  fast 
horses,  play  polo  and  billiards,  and  recuperate  generally, 
amid  the  daisies  and  dandelions,  causing  innumerable  flutters 
among  the  unapprop'iated  hearts  spoken  of  in  Captain 
Ffrench's  letter,  and  adding  insult  to  injury,  when  they  say 
smiling  good-byes  under  the  August  moon,  and  depart  un- 
scathed. 

They  love  and  they  ride  away,  these  brilliant  golden  youths, 
sons  and  nephews  of  the  first  families  mentioned  above,  and 
reck  little  of  the  cracked  vestal  hearts,  and  sighing  autumn 
winds  they  leave  behind. 

Matters  progress  smoothly  at  Charlton.  The  master  of 
the  manor  beams  through  his  double  eyeglass,  and  sees  all 
things  working  together  to  accomplish  the  desire  of  his  heart. 
Dick  goes  no  more  to  Shaddeck  Light.  He  makes  a  social 
martyr  of  himself  and  drinks  iced  tea  and  lemonade,  loafs 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  amid  the  croquet  players,  with 
no  outward  sign  of  the  inward  disgust  that  consumes  him; 
takes  Eleanor  out  for  lengthy  rambles  in  the  gr:jiy  of  the  July 


78 


no IV  THE   GAME    WAS  MADE. 


\\ 


Hi 


'Hiiii 
1 


evenings,  is  charioteer  of  the  (\\\w\.y  phaeton ,  andbowls  her 
over  the  long,  (histy  country  roads,  prevails  upon  her  to  get 
up  mornings  and  go  out  with  him  upon  the  high  seas  in  the 
Nixie.  Sometimes  Vera  is  of  the  party,  oftener  they  are 
alone.  Once  or  twice,  Mr.  Charlton  has  come  upon  him 
stretched  at  beauty's  feet,  in  the  long  golden  afternoons, 
reading  aloud  Tennyson,  or  Mrs.  IJrowning,  and  a  muscular 
young  man  must  be  pretty  far  gone  when  he  comes  to  that. 
Eleanor's  sweet  serious  face  is  a  book  the  astute  old  gentle- 
man cannot  read — if  she  suffers,  she  suffers  in  silence,  and 
trains  her  countenance  well.  Of  the  storms,  the  scoldings, 
the  reproaches,  the  coaxings,  the  tempests  of  tears,  that  ob- 
tain almost  nightly,  no  one  dreams.  Perhaps  Dora  guesses 
— those  pale,  cold  blue  eyes  of  hers  glitter  with  maliciously 
knowing  light,  sometimes,  but  certainly  no  one  else  does. 
She  is  forced  upon  Richard  Ffrench,  neither  he  nor  she  can 
avert  it — '*  who  is  stronger  than  his  fate  ?  " — and  she  accepts 
her  part  almost  apathetically.  She  cannot  get  away,  and 
until  he  speaks  she  can  say  nothing.  He  is  not  very  badly 
hurt,  and  she  likes  him  for  his  honest,  simple  desire  to  please 
his  father.  She  looks  at  him  with  kindly,  half  amused,  halt 
vexed  eyes,  as  he  follows  her  about,  moodily  sometimes,  and 
with  his  heart  en  route  to  Central  America,  but  always  bright- 
ening at  her  smile. 

Captain  Dick  has  quite  made  up  his  mind  to  obey,  has 
written  to  Dr.  Knglehart  to  tell  him  so.  Ah  !  what  a  l)ang 
that  letter  cost  him.  No  woman  could  ever  lacerate  the 
captain's  heart  as  that  letter  did.  Smce  he  is  to  obey,  he 
will  obey  with  a  good  grace — cheerily  given,  is  twice  given  ; 
and  with  P^leanor  for  his  wife,  and  croquet,  and  afternoon 
tea  at  an  end  forever,  surely  he  will  be  an  ungracious  dog 
if  he  is  not  happy.  At  present,  the  slops,  and  the  balls,  and 
mallets  are  part  of  his  duty  as  a  wooer,  and  Dick  Ffrench  be- 
lieves in  facing  his  duty  without  tlinching.  Every  day  his 
admiration  for  Eleanor  becomes  more  profound  ;  it  is  a  lib- 


iL 


HOW  THE    GAME    WAS  MADE. 


79 


halt 
and 


dog 


eral  education  to  converse  with  her.  And  then  she  is  so 
good,  so  pure,  so  earnest,  so  true. 

"  A  man  should  go  up  a  ladder  to  look  for  a  friend,  and 
down  a  ladder  to  look  for  a  wife,"  says  the  cynical  old  axiom, 
but  Richard  Ffrench  ha?  not  a  grain  of  cynicism  in  him,  and 
does  not  believe  it.  Mentally,  he  holds  a  man's  wife  ;  hould 
be  iiis  ecjual,  morally,  his  superior.  Veneration  is  an  essential 
element  in  his  love  ;  Miss  Charlton  commands  homage  and 
esteem,  wherever  she  goes.     If  a   man  cannot  be  happy  as 

her  husband 1-ying  on  his  back,  on  the  grass,  his  hands 

clasped  under  his  head,  his  eyes  on  the  sailing  clouds,  Dick 
breaks  off  here.  What  right  has  he  to  tliink  she  will  ever 
accept  him  ?  Is  it  likely  that  so  charming  a  girl  has  reached 
three  and-twenty  with  her  heart  untouched  ?  He  does  not 
like  the  idea  of  leasing  for  life  a  heart  that  has  held  former 
lodgers,  and  been  swept  and  garni  -.hed  after,  for  him.  Dora's 
sting  has  not  rankled  ;  he  is  the  most  unsuspicious  of  human 
beings  ;  her  little  poisoned  shaft  has  fallen  harmless.  And 
Mrs.  Charlton  has  told  the  governor,  who  has  told  him,  that 
it  will  be  all  right. 

Confound  the  old  lady,  Dick  thinks — it  is  brushing  the 
bloom  otV  his  peach,  it  is  desecrating  what  should  be  sacred 
to  Eleanor  and  himself,  this  vulgar  match-making.  Is  not 
the  uncertainty,  the  doubt,  the  hope,  the  despair,  half  the 
delight  of  wooing  ? 

No  word,  no  look  of  hers,  have  ever  held  out  the  faintest 
hope  ;  ihe  smile  that  welcomes  his  coming,  speeds  his  part- 
ing ;  she  is  as  serenely  unconscious  of  his  transparent  meaning, 
as  that  star  up  yonder,  tremulouj  in  the  blue.  Well — it  is 
best  so  — who  cares  for  the  plum  ready  to  drop  into  his  mouth 
the  moment  it  is  oi)ened  ? 

No  more  than  the  others,  can  he  see  the  pain,  the  shame, 
the  martyrdom,  the  girl  endures  for  his  sake.  In  her  room 
at  night,  the  old  battle  rages,  mutely  on  her  part,  furiously 
on  her  mother's.     It  is  the  great  stake  of  Mrs.  Charlton's 


l 


I  ♦ 


If;  I., 


im 


n 


I 


80 


I/Oiy  THE   GAME    WAS  AfAV.. 


life,  all  her  hopes  are  in  it  As  the  mother  of  the  rich  Mrs. 
I'french  her  future  is  secured.  Shall  she  for  a  whim,  a  noi- 
sensical,  sentimental  whim  of  Eleanor's,  yield  her  point  ?  VVc 
none  of  us  like  to  be  beaten — Mrs.  Charlton  likes  it  less 
than  the  majority  ;  in  point  of  fact,  she  seldom  knows  when 
she  //  beaten,  and  often  wins  in  the  end  through  sheer  ob- 
stinacy and  i)ig  luMdednc-ss.  So  the  nightly  war  goes  on. 
The  field  is  free  to  Kleanor,  now,  even  Dora  has  accepted 
defeat  gracefully,  and  retired.  'I'o-morrow  or  the  next  day, 
Richard  FtVench  will  speak  ;  it  is  only  for  Kleanor  to  say  a 
simple  "yes,"  and  open  paradise  to  her  whole  family. 

Dora  has  retired  from  the  contest.  With  perfect  good 
humor  Miss  Lightwood  has  resigned  the  prize  ;  is  "scratched," 
in  sporting  parlance,  for  the  race ;  has  thrown  up  the  sponge 
to  Fate ;  has  lain  down  her  cards  before  the  game  has  fairly 
begun.  A  smiling  change  has  come  over  her;  she  is  the 
sunshine  of  the  house  ;  she  is  gracious  even  to  Mrs.  Charlton. 
No  one  of  them  all  is  as  much  at  home  in  Charlton  as  she.  She 
inspects  the  dining-room  and  table,  before  each  meal,  adorns 
it  with  flowers,  and  tlits  about  like  a  sunbeam.  In  the  even- 
ings, when  Eleanor  wanders  through  the  grounds  with  Dick, 
or  Vera  plays  in  unison  with  the  violin,  Dora  takes  a  hand 
at  whist,  with  a  dummy,  and  the  dowager,  and  the  master  of 
the  house.  She  does  not  know  much  about  the  obsolete 
game,  but  she  is  bright  and  quick,  and  learns  rapidly.  Some- 
times her  eyes  wander  away  from  her  trumps,  to  the  pair  at 
the  piano,  or  to  the  cool,  wide  window,  and  a  singular  smile 
gleams  in  her  eyes.  Perhaps  that  conversation  over  the 
orchard  wall  has  something  to  do  with  it ;  both  these  people 
are  transparent  to  her. 

When  the  lover  speaks,  the  maiden  will  say  no.  And  in 
his  pain,  his  chagrin,  to  whom  so  likely,  as  to  her  soothing 
little  self,  is  this  big  blundering  captain  likely  to  turn  ? 
Hearts  and  rubber  balls  are  best  caught  on  the  rebouhd. 
Dora  is   making  haste   slowly,  and   meantime   is  winning 


I/O IV  THE   G^iME    WAS  MADE. 


8i 


ung 


goltlcn  ojjinions  from  all  sorts  or  people — from  the  kitchen- 
maids  below  stairs,  to  the  Seigneur  of  Charlton,  who  calls 
her  the  sunbeam  of  the  house. 

For  Vera,  the  last  of  this  family  group,  she  is  fairly  puzzled. 
To  give  up  anything  on  which  she  has  once  set  her  heart,  is 
not  like  Dora,  and  yet  Dora  seems  to  be  doing  it  here.  She 
has  resigned  almost  without  a  struggle.  Presently  Charlton 
will  be  but  a  beautiful  dream  of  the  past,  and  life  will  recom- 
mence amid  the  crash,  and  turmoil,  and  din,  and  dust  of 
New  York.  Oh  !  dear  !  And  Dot  must  go  back  to  the 
show-rooms  on  Fourteenth  Street  ;  poor  Dot  I  who  is  never 
strong,  who  has  a  hacking  cough  in  the  winter,  who  has 
something  the  matter  with  her  heart,  and  who  was  told  long 
ago  that  a  life  free  from  care  and  anxiety  was  absolutely 
necessary  to  her.  It  is  for  Dot,  Vera  mourns.  But,  after 
all,  if  Captain  Dick  cares  for  Nelly,  Nelly  he  must  have. 
In  all  the  world  there  is  neither  king  nor  kaiser  to  be  named 
in  the  same  breath  with  this  splendid  Captain  Dick,  who  has 
been  everywhere,  and  seen  and  done  everything ;  who  has 
fought  like  a  hero,  who  is  gentle  as  a  woman,  who  is  strong, 
and  brave,  and  good,  and  kind,  and  learned,  and  clever, 
and — in  one  word — i»erfection. 

It  is  simi)ly  one  of  the  fixed  laws  of  nature,  that  Captain 
Dick  shall  have  everything  he  wants,  and  if  he  wants  Eleanor, 
Eleanor  he  must  have,  and  the  loss  is  poor  Dot's — that  is 
all.  Nelly  is  the  dearest,  the  sweetest  of  created  beings ; 
she  is  almost  good  enough  even  for  the  peerless  Richard,  and 
Vera  hopes  in  her  warm  little  heart,  they  will  be — oh,  so 
happy.  Sometimes,  perhaps,  in  the  summers  to  come,  they 
may  invite  her  and  Dora  down,  and  it  is  good  and  magnani- 
mous of  Dora  to  give  up  so  ea^dy,  and  devote  herself  to  the 
house,  and  the  card-playing,  and  refuse  to  go  with  then), 
even  when  she — Vera — makes  a  third,  and  laugh  and  stay  at 
home,  and  write  letters  for  Mr.  Charlton,  and  superintend 
things  generally,  as  if  she  were  Dick's  sister,  and  the  little 


1 1 


m 


% 


1  i  m 

!,  *  '■I;;lli 


^  1 

•5 

r 

! 

ifi 

1 

ti 

* 

i 
1 

' 

1 

./i 


82 


I/O IV  THE    GAME    WAS  MADE. 


daughter  of  the  house.  Vera  is  all  in  a  glow  of  admiration 
for  her  sister,  for  Eleanor,  for  Dick.  There  never  were  such 
lovely  people,  she  thinks,  with  enthusiasm,  nor  such  a  para- 
dise of  a  place  before. 

^^  "P  t*  T*  T*  ^F  ^* 

But  a  change  is  at  hand.  For  the  last  two  days,  the  sun 
has  gone  down  lurid  and  angry  ;  coj^per-colored  clouds  chase 
each  other  over  the  sky,  the  surf  booms  sullenly  down  on 
the  sand,  a  coming  storm  is  near.  The  moral  atmos|)here 
is  charged  with  electricity  as  well,  a  crisis  is  at  hand.  Elea- 
nor looks  pale  and  frightened,  Richard  loses  his  appetite  to 
an  extent  thac  alarms  Vera.  He  smokes  a  great  deal  more 
than  is  good  for  him  ;  he  has  been  out  for  two  successive 
nights  on  the  Kay.  Vera  wonders  if  everybody  has  it  as  badly 
as  this,  and  if  so,  how  is  it  that  married  men  and  women  look 
so  dreadfully  commonplace  and  prosy,  all  the  rest  of  their 
lives.  She  wishes — for  Dick's  sake — it  were  well  over,  she 
wishes,  for  Divk's  sake,  that  Eleanor  would  put  him  out  of 
his  misery.,  and  let  him  have  a  Christian  relish  for  his  victuals, 
and  a  sensible  night's  sleep  once  more. 

One  afternoon — it  is  drawing  close  upon  dinner-time — she 
curls  herself  up  among  a  pile  oi  cushions  in  the  dusky  draw- 
ing-room, and  drops  asleep.  It  has  been  oi)pressively  sultry 
all  day  ;  the  weather  is  asphyxiating  ;  to  double  up  some 
where  and  go  to  sleep,  is  a  necessity  of  life.  Vera  sleeps 
rnd  dreams.  She  dreams  of  the  person  who  was  last  in  her 
waking  thoughts,  Captain  Dick.  She  is  urging  ui)on  him  a 
large  slice  of  bread  and  butter,  and  he  is  gloomily  declining. 
Can  bread  and  butter,  he  darkly  demands,  minister  to  a  mind 
diseased  ?  It  is  certainly  Captain  Dick's  voice  that  is  speak- 
ing, and  the  tone  is  more  tense  and  troubled  than  that  in 
which  one  generally  declines  the  staff  of  life.  It  is  a  sup- 
pressed tone,  too. 

**  It  is  reall-y  no,  then  ?  "  he  is  saying,  "  there  is  no  hope  ?  '* 

"It  is  no,"  another  voice,  a  distressed  voice,  this  time, 


pe?" 
time, 


« 


IlOiy   THE    GAME    Pf^AS    MADE. 


83 


answers.  "  Oh  !  Captain  Ffrenrh,  do  yon  not  think  I  would 
have  prevented  this  if  I  could  ?  Hut  what  could  I  do  ?  You 
do  not  know — you  do  not  know " 

'*  I  know  that  for  all  the  world  1  would  not  di'^tress  you," 
the  deeper  tone  breaks  in  ;  "  that  you  gave  me  no  reason  to 
hope.  I  know  that  I  hold  you  higher  than  all  women,  and 
that  if  you  could  care  for  me,  it  would  make  the  ha|>i>iness 
of  my  life.  I  am  not  worthy  of  you — few  men  could  be  ; 
but  as  Heaven  hears  me,  I  would  try.  Eleanor  !  think  aj^in 
—must  it  be  no  ?  " 

"  It  must  be  no." 

And  then  Vera  starts  up  in  wild  aifright,  and  stares  about 
her.  They  do  not  see  her,  but  there  they  are,  standing  to- 
gether by  the  window,  'J'heir  backs  are  turned — the  door  is 
near — she  must  escape.  Oh  !  how  awful  if  they  ..  lould 
catch  her  here — a  spy  !  In  a  mortal  panic  she  rises,  sidles 
out  of  the  room,  and  sits  flat  down  on  the  hall  floor — crushed  ! 

Crushed  !  It  is  all  over,  the  great  agony  is  at  an  end,  he 
has  put  his  fate  to  the  touch  and  lost  it  all.  Eleanor  has  re- 
fused him,  refused  Richard  Ffrench,  refused  the  heir  of 
(Jharlton,  refused  the  best,  the  bravest,  the  most  beautiful  of 
his  sex,  refused  a  hero,  a  demi-god,  refused  Captain  Dick! 
Vera  sits  stunned.  There  are  antitheses  ths  hmnan  mind 
declines  to  take  in — this  is  one.  To  refuse  Captain  Ffrench, 
for  any  woman  to  say  no  to  such  a  man  !  By  and  by  Vera 
may  get  over  this  ;  at  present  the  blow  has  felled  her.  She 
sits  i)erfectly  notionless.  Captain  Dick  has  asked  Eleanor 
to  marry  him,  and  Eleanor  has  said  no. 

And  then  in  Vera's  breast  a  great  indignation  rises  and 
burns.  How  dare  she  !  To  think  of  her  presuming  to  make 
him  unhapi)y  ;  of  her  presuming  to  refuse  him  anything  !  If 
she  feels  so  crushed,  so  outraged,  how  nuist  he  feel  ?  It  is 
as  if  the  regicidal  hand  of  the  base-born  lieggar  Maid  had 
lifted  and  stabbed  King  Coplietua  to  the  heart,  in  the  hour 
of  his  kingly  condescension  !     She  will  never  like  Eleanor 


im 


I 


\   t 


^  i\wm. 


.  i  •!' 


84 


HOW  THE    GAME    WAS  MADE. 


any  more,  never.  Nothing  that  can  happen  to  her  will  ever 
be  too  bad.  She  deserves  to  have  to  teach  music  to  the  last 
day  of  her  life,  she  deserves  to  have  such  a  mother,  she  de- 
serves to  be  an  old  maid.  Oh  !  why  has  it  not  been  Dot  ? 
Dot  would  never  have  said  no.  Dot  would  not  have  made 
him  miserable.  What  will  Mr.  Charlton  say?  nnd  will  Dick 
rush  away  in  a  frenzy  to  the  other  end  of  the  world,  to  the 
torrid  or  the  arctic  zones,  and  become  a  gloomy  misanthrope 
forever  after  ? 

A  sounil — a  '^'oor  opens — it  is  Eleanor  coming  out.  She 
nearly  stumbles  over  Vera.  Her  face  is  pale,  her  eyes  red, 
she  has  been  crying.  Good  enough  for  her.  Vera  thinks, 
viciously  ;  she  hopes  she  will  cry  her  eyes  and  nose  as  red 
as  they  deserve  to  be.  She  tlashes  a  glance  of  anger  and 
scorn  upon  her,  but  Miss  Charlton  does  not  seem  to  see  it. 
She  hurries  away,  and  upstairs.  And  then  through  the 
open  door-way  Vera  sees  Captain  Dick,  his  hat  pulled  well 
over  his  eyes,  striding  down  tiie  garden,  and  out  of  sight. 
Vera's  first  impulse  is  to  go  after  him  to  comfort  him,  and 
Vara's  rule  of  life  is  to  act  on  impulse.  She  is  on  her  feet  in 
a  moment,  but  before  she  can  dart  off,  Dora  comes  rustling 
down-stairs,  in  a  dinner  dress,  as  blue  as  her  eyes,  and  lays 
hold  of  her. 

*'  Where  are  you  going  ?  "  she  asks. 

"  After  him,"  answers  Vera,  "  don't  stop  me,  Dot.  If 
you  knew  how  unhap[)y  he  is " 

"Ah  !"  says  Dora,  and  laughs,  "you  have  overheard  then 
— it  has  come  ?     She  said  no,  of  course  ?  " 

"She  said  no,  and  I  hate  her  !  "  cries  Vera. 

"  I  thought  it  was  coming — I  have  seen  the  signs  and  the 
tokens  before,"  laughs  Dora,  still  retaining  her  hold.  "  No, 
my  dear,  you  nnist  not  go  after  Captain  Dick  ;  it  would  not 
be  proper  ;  he  would  not  thank  you,  and  he  is  past  all  com- 
forting of  yours.  But  he  will  get  over  it,  it  is  a  way  men 
have.     How  does  my  hair  look  done  in  this  style,  and  do 


THE  END   OF   THE  FAIRY  TALE. 


^»> 


85 


not  these  jiink  roses  go  exquisitely  with  this  shade  of  blue  ? 
I  am  afraid  my  charming  toilet  will  be  thrown  away  on  poor 
Captain  Dick."  Dot's  elfish  laugh  sounds  more  shrill  than 
usual.  "  He  snubbed  me  unmercifully  one  night,  not  long 
ago — it  is  my  turn  now." 


CHAPTER  X. 


THE    KND    OF   THE    FAIRY   TALE. 


1  the 
No, 
not 
om- 
men 
do 


LOOM  has  fallen  upon  the  Charlton  household.  It 
is  so  dark  at  half-past  six,  the  dinner  hour,  that 
they  are  forced  to  light  the  gas.  Miss  Charlton 
has  a  headache,  and  do'^s  not  appear.  Cai>tain  Ffrench  comes 
in  late,  and  manfully  does  his  best  to  seem  as  usual,  but  the 
effort  is  not  the  success  it  deserves  to  be.  Vera's  eyes,  in 
their  wishful  brown  beauty,  rest  on  him,  full  of  mingled  ad- 
mirition  and  compassion.  She  thinks  of  the  Spartan  boy 
and  his  cloak,  and  the  wolf  gnawing  at  his  vitals — or  was  it  a 
fox  ?  The  race  of  Spartans  is  not  extinct,  for  here  is  Cap- 
tain Dick  essaying  cheerful  commonplaces,  and  sipping  veuve 
cliqiwt,  as  though  he  liked  both,  bearing  himself  as  bravely 
as  though  his  heart  had  not  just  been  broken.  Dora  shines 
with  abnormal  brilliancy,  her  blue  eyes  flash,  her  delicate 
cheeks  Hush,  her  shrill  laugh  rings  out  ;  she  rallies  Captain 
Dicic  until  he  burns  to  shy  his  dinner-plate  at  her.  She  is  a 
social  meteor,  quite  dazzling  in  fact,  and  Mr.  Charlton,  look- 
ing and  listening  admiringly,  wonders  what  the  house  will  be 
like  when  she  is  gone. 

After  dinner  Vera  goes  to  the  piano.  She  is  fond  of  music, 
and  the  evening  is  the  only  time  cool  enough  for  so  much 
exertion.  Mechanically,  Dick  follows  her,  and  leans  with 
folded  arms  upon  the  instrument,  staring  in  a  blank  sort  of 


!^'^ 


86 


THE  END    OF   THE  FAIRY  TALE. 


way  at  a  picture  on  the  wall  above  it.  It  is  Cenci ;  and  the 
dusk  i)r()])hetic  face,  with  its  haunting,  wistful  eyes,  reminds 
him  somehow  of  Vera  herself.  He  is  glad  to  get  away  from 
Dora;  her  covert  innuendoes  have  been  stabbing  him  like 
knives. 

"What  a  little  devil's  doll  she  is  !"  he  thinks,  with  very 
unusual  savagery.  *'  How  does  she  come  to  know  anything 
about  it  so  h>)on  ?  " 

X'era's  nmsic  soothes  him.  A  dreary  sense  of  loss  and 
pain  ()p|)resses  him.  If  he  were  only  free  to  go  with  the  ex- 
pedition— if  the  governor  had  not  wrung  that  half  promise 
from  him.  For  the  jiiesent  he  must  go  away  somewhere,  it 
would  be  horribly  uncomfortable  for  Eleanor  to  have  him  in 
the  house.  How  nobly  she  spok ;,  how  lovely  she  looked, 
with  great  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  divine  pity  in  her  face.  Ah ! 
he  never  deserved  such  a  i)ri/e,  great  rough  fellow  that  ne  is, 
and  yet  if  she  could  have  cared  for  him 

"  The  moon's  on  the  lake,  and  the  mist's  on  the  brae, 
Ami  tlie  clan  has  a  name  that  is  nameless  by  day^" 

Vera's  sweet,  strong  voice  rings  out  spiritedly  the  stirring 
Scotch  ballad. 

It  is  opi)ressively  close.  Sheet  lightning  is  blazing  in  con- 
tinual zig-zags  all  along  the  horizon — i)alingthe  yellow  gleam 
of  the  lamps.  Now  and  then,  a  great  drop  plashes  audibly 
outside  ;  from  the  sea  comes  at  intervals,  a  low,  weird  moan- 
ing, as  of  a  sentient  thing  in  pain.  The  trees  writhe  and  toss 
wildly  in  the  darkness-  all  nature  feels  the  coming  convul- 
sion, and  shrinks. 

"  The  storm  is  very  near,"  says  Mr.  Charlton,  lifting  his 
white  head.      "  AVe  will  have  it  to-night." 

They  do  not  talk  nuich,  this  evening,  the  oppression  of 
the  atmospheric  change  is  upon  them  all.  I>ut  Dora  keeps 
brilliant  and  sparkling  to  the  last  ;  plays  a  game  of  chess 
with  her  host,  and  going  to  the  piano  afterwards,  sings,  at  his 


THE  END    OF    THE  FAIRY  TALE. 


87 


con- 
earn 

ibly 
loan- 

toss 
ivul- 

his 

of 


.  his 


request,  the  old  time  love  ditty  of  Barbara  Allan.  Captain 
Ffrench  does  not  leave  his  post,  and  the  malice  in  the  spark- 
ling eyes  of  the  singer  gleams  laughingly  out  as  she  looks  up 
at  him. 

"  Then  slowly,  slowly,  came  she  up, 
And  slowly  came  she  nigh  him, 
And  all  she  said,  when  there  she  came, 
*  Young  man,  I  Uiink  you'  re  dying  ! '  " 

"It  is  curious,"  she  says,  and  laughs,  "but  Nelly  always 
puts  me  in  mind  of  cruel  Barbara  Allan.  I  can  fancy  lier 
walking  up  to  the  deathbed  of  some  love-lorn  swain,  and 
calmly  saying,  Young  man,  I  think  you're  dying  !  '  Weith- 
er's  Charlotte  must  have  been  of  that  type,  pale,  passionless 
— don't  you  thi.ik  so  ?  You  remember  Thackeray's  funny 
version  of  the  tragedy — '  Charlotte,  when  she  saw  his  body 
borne  past  her  on  a  shutter,  like  a  well-conducted  person, 
went  on  cutting  bread  and  butter.'  Nelly  would  go  on  cut- 
ting bread  and  butter  too.  What  do  you  think  about  it, 
Captain  Ffrench  ?" 

She  is  laughing  immoderately  at  the  young  man's  di.  gusted 
face,  and  without  waiting  for  reply,  returns  to  the  chess-table, 
and  challenges  Mr.  Charlton  to  another  game.  With  the 
streaming  light  of  the  chandelier  full  upon  her,  her  gleaming 
prettiness  looks  uncanny.  Mrs.  Charlton  watches  her  sourly 
for  a  while,  then,  complaining  of  the  heat,  gets  up  and  goes. 

"Tell  poor  dear  Nelly  how  much  we  have  missed  her," 
calls  Dora,  with  her  mocking  smile  ;  "  I  do  so  hojie  her 
headache  is  better.  To-morrow,  you  know.  Captain  Ffrench 
and  Mr.  Fred  Howell  are  to  take  us  over  to  the  Pine  Barren. 
It  would  be  such  a  pity  if  she  could  not  go." 

A  malevolent  glance  is  the  elder  lady's  answer.  Not  a 
spark  of  Dora's  eldritch  malice  is  lost  upon  her.  AM  even- 
ing she  has  been  uncomfortable.  Eleanor's  absence,  and 
headache — she  is  not  subject  to  headache  ;  Dick  PTrench's 
moody  silence — these  are  alarming  tokens.     Can  it  be — (in 


88 


THE  END   OF   THE  FAIRY  TALE, 


the  sultriness  of  the  airless  night  her  bloorl  chills  at  the 
thought) — can  it  be  that  Eleanor  has  carried  out  her  reckless 
threat,  and  refused  him  ?  Refused  Charlton  !  refused  the 
finest  fortune  in  the  State.  Her  hands  clench,  her  hard  eyes 
flash.     If  she  has 

*^^  ^M  ^M  ^M  ^0  4*  *Mf  ^t# 

*S*  I*  ^6  JJ*  *(*  *J*  •!*  T* 

The  gloom  deepens  with  the  morning,  both  within  and 
without.  All  night  long  the  rain  has  poured  in  torrents,  is 
pouring  still,  when  Vera  comes  down-stairs.  It  hardly  waits 
to  pour,  it  drives  in  white  blinding  sheets  of  water,  over  land 
and  sea,  it  drifts  furiously  against  the  glass,  it  beats  down 
flowers  and  trees.  A  high  wind  is  blowing  outside.  Where 
she  stands  Vera  can  hear  the  thunder  of  the  surf  on  the 
shore  ;  it  is  no  child's  play  down  among  the  white  caps,  this 
August  morning.  How  those  white  sea-horses  must  toss 
their  foamy  manes,  and  churn,  and  break,  and  roar  about 
Shaddeck  Light.  She  hopes  Daddy  is  not  nervous,  alone 
there  on  that  lonely  rock,  in  this  shrill  whistling  storm.  How 
good  of  Captain  Dick  to  have  rescued  that  poor  half-witted 
lad,  the  butt  of  the  town,  half-starved,  wholly  beaten,  and 
given  him  a  home  in  the  little  island  house. 

.She  wonders  how  Captain  Dick  feels  this  morning,  If  he 
slept  last  night.  People  crossed  in  love  do  not,  as  a  rule, 
sleep  over  well.  Vera  has  understood.  Who  would  have 
thought  Eleanor  could  be  so  cold-hearted,  so  cruel,  so  blind 
to  hO  much  i)erfection.  But,  perhaps,  she  likes  some  one 
else  ;  it  seems  impossible  though  that  any  woman  could  be 
faithful  to  any  man,  after  seeing  this  king  aniong  men. 
Surely  infidelity  in  such  a  case  would  be  a  positive  virtue. 
There  mus^  be  some  reason.  Mo  sane  human  being  could 
do  so  extraordinary  a  thing,  without  a  powerful  motive. 

Perhaps  P^leanor  has  a  clandestine  husband  already,  down 
there  in  Louisiana — she  has  read  of  such  things  in  novels. 
Vera's  ideas  are  thrown,  so  to  sjjeak,  on  their  hind  legs  ;  she 
is  trying  with  all  her  might  to  account  for  Eleanor's  folly. 


THE  END   OF   THE  FAIRY  TALE, 


89 


he 
iile, 
Live 

ind 
one 

be 
nen. 


)\vn 

she 
)lly. 


She  finds,  upon  consideration,  that  she  cannot  hate  her,  that 
she  is  more  disposed  this  morning  to  look  ui)on  her  in  sorrow 
than  in  anger;  but  the  reason  that  is  strong  enough  to  make 
her  say  no  to  Captain  Dick,  is  beyond  all  surmise  of  hers. 

As  she  stands,  Eleanor  comes  down.  Her  face  is  start- 
lingly  pale,  her  eyes  have  a  wild,  hunted,  frightened  look,  all 
the  sweet  and  gracious  calm,  that  makes  her  greatest  charm, 
is  gone.  She  looks  as  though  she  had  not  slept,  her  lips 
tremble,  as  she  says  good-morning. 

"You  are  sick!"  Vera  exclaims.  "You  look  as  if  you 
had  been  sick  a  week.  Were  you  awake  all  night  ?  Was  it 
the  storm  ?  " 

She  makes  a  gesture  of  assent,  and  coming  close  to  the 
window,  lays  her  forehead  against  the  glass,  with  a  sort  of 
low  moan.  Vera's  eyes  fill  vvith  a  great  com[)assion.  Can  it 
be  that  she  loves  Captain  Dick  after  all,  that  some  reason 
obliges  her  to  refuse  him,  and  that  she  is  sutTering  all  tiiis 
anguish  on  his  account  ?  She  softens,  the  last  renmant  of  her 
indignation  fades  away.  Miss  Charlton  is  not  wholly  har- 
dened then,  after  all. 

"  Does  your  head  ache  still  ? "  she  softly  asks,  coming 
close.     *'  Poor  dear  Nelly  !     I  am  so  sorry." 

Eleanor  passes  her  arm  around  the  girl's  slender  waist,  but 
does  not  otherwise  reply.  In  her  eyes  there  is  such  hopeless 
trouble,  such  dark  terror,  that  it  frightens  Vera. 

How  is  the  child  to  know  of  the  horrible  scene  enacted  in 
Eleanor's  room  last  night — of  the  bitter  storm  of  reproaches, 
of  vulgar  vituperation,  of  fierce  threats,  under  which  she 
shrank  and  cowered  ?  She  turns  sick  at  heart  now,  as  she 
recalls  it.  In  all  her  mother's  furious  rages,  she  has  never 
seen  the  fury  of  last  night  equalled.  She  has  not  slept  at 
all  ;  her  head  aches,  her  body  aches,  her  heart  aches,  she 
seems  one  sickening  ache  from  head  to  foot.  And  it  is  to  go 
on  forever,  day  after  day,  month  after  month,  the  same 
miserable,  ceaseless  scold>  scold,  scold,  to  the  bitter  end. 


:| 


rlj^ 


]•  r 


( '" 


-I  'l  ^ 


! 


90 


T//E  END   OF   THE  FAIRY   TALE. 


Mrs.  Charlton  docs  not  appear  at  breakfast.  The  truth 
is,  she  has  raged  herst-lf  ill,  and  into  a  fit  of  blackest 
sulks.  Kleanor  is  forbidden  to  enter  her  room,  whether  she 
lives  or  dies,  to  speak  to  her  no  more,  until  she  comes 
to  her  senses.  One  of  the  luaids  fetches  her  uj)  tea  and  but- 
tered toast ;  her  daughter  knows  her  too  well  to  dare  to 
disobey. 

Cai»iain  Ffrench  is  absent  also.  Late  last  night,  it  seenis, 
after  the  faniil\'  had  retired,  he  went  to  St.  Ann's,  and  now,  of 
course,  is  storm-bound.  Dora  trips  tlown,  the  sparkle  of  last 
night  scarcely  dinuned.  Not  all  the  sweeping  tempest  of 
wind  and  rain  is  able  to  blur  one  jot  of  her  gay  brightness. 
Mr.  Charlton  comes,  but  less  debonair  than  usual.  In  point 
of  fact  his  old  enemy,  rheumatic  gout,  has  been  shooting 
warning  twinges  for  the  past  two  or  three  days,  and  this 
morning  he  is  barely  able  to  hobble  to  breakfast.  He  knows 
what  is  in  store  for  him,  doubly  trying  now,  with  a  houseful 
of  fair  guests,  but  it  is  one  of  the  things  no  fine  old  gentleman 
of  his  years  and  habits  can  hope  to  escape,  and  he  puts  the 
best  possible  face  on  his  affliction. 

Dora  is  full  of  sweetest  commiseration,  Eleanor  has  a  far- 
away frightened  look  still  in  her  eyes,  and  eats  nothing  at 
all.  Vera  feels  that  in  common  sympathy  she,  too,  should 
eat  nothing,  with  tiie  whole  family  so  to  say  ///  extremis  ; 
but  her  appetite  remains  a  ])ainful  and  powerfid  fact,  and 
will  not  be  said  nay.  She  is  ashamed  of  herself,  and  con- 
sumes mulfins  and  fresh  eggs  in  a  sneaky,  apologetic  fashion, 
and  is  relieved  when  the  ordeal  is  over. 

And  now  the  long  day  begins.  Rain,  rain,  rain — oh  ! 
how  it  pours — it  looks  as  if  it  might  come  down  for  a  week. 
Mr.  Charlton  is  forced  to  return  to  his  study,  leaning  on 
Dora's  arm  which  she  insists  on  his  taking.  They  look  so 
absurd — the  tall,  elderly  involid,  and  the  mite  of  a  woman, 
hobbling  away  together,  that  Vera's  gravity  is  nearly  upsjt. 
Certainly  she  is   an   unfeeling   little  wretch,  to   be  able  to 


'T 


\g  at 


con- 
lion, 


T//E  END   OF   THE  FAIRY  TALE. 


91 


laugh  with  everybody  else  so  iniseiahle,  so  she  sternly  re- 
presses a  small  grin,  and  heaves  a  sigli  instead. 

What  shall  she  do  with  herself  all  this  long  wet  day  I 
Dora  does  not  return,  Eleanor  goes  upstairs  ;  she  is  all 
alone  in  the  big,  silent  house.  What  a  dismal  change  two 
days  have  made.  Perhaps  Captain  Dick  will  come  back  no 
more.  It  is  not  the  rain  that  detains  him  in  St.  Ann's — ah  ! 
no,  he  is  neither  sugar  nor  salt  to  care  for  a  drenching.  He 
has  been  crossed  in  love,  and  is  d\ing  hard  over  there  at  the 
St.  Ann's  Hotel.  Perhaps  he  will  start  {ox  Central  America, 
and  never  even  come  back  to  say  good-by. 

Vera  is  absurd,  but  she  is  none  the  less  unhappy  ;  she  has 
unutterable  sympathy  for  Captain  Dick,  she  h  is  a  mild  regret 
for  Eleanor.  She  gazes  forlornly  at  the  rain,  life's  troubles 
are  so  much  easier  to  bear,  when  the  weather  is  i)ropitious. 
And  then  there  is  sickness  in  the  house,  and  it  will  seem 
unfeeling  to  sit  down  and  practice.  If  one  could  only  sleep 
all  day  I  Jkit  one  cannot,  so,  with  another  vast  sigh.  Vera 
gets  up,  goes  for  a  book,  and  prepares  to  devote  the  long 
hours  to  literature. 

Evening  comes,  and  brings  little  change.  It  still  rains, 
the  sky  looks  sullen,  the  black  surcharged  clouds  good  for 
two  days  more  of  it.  Mrs.  Charlton  descends  to  dinner,  but 
Lot's  wife,  changed  to  a  basaltic  column,  was  never  more 
frigid,  more  awful.  Their  host  is  unable  to  appear — he  has 
been  suffering  martyrdom  all  day  ;  even  Dora,  ministering 
angel  that  she  is,  can  do  little  to  assuage  his  anguisli.  The 
absent  heir  cometh  not,  but  just  before  dinner.  Daddy  comes 
with  a  note.     It  is  for  Mr.  Charlton,  and  is  of  the  briefest 

"  My  Dkar  Governor  : — Englehart  came  to-day,  and  is  at  the  St. 
Ann's,  He  means  to  stay  a  week  or  two,  to  recruit,  liaving  been  laitl 
up  lately.  Knowing  your  prejudice,  I  will  not,  of  course,  bring  him  to 
Charlton,  but  shall  remain  with  him  here  instead.  Make  my  apologies 
to  the  ladies. 

"Ever  yours,  R.  C.  F." 


K- 


92 


TITE  END   OF   THE  FAIRY  TALE. 


Mr.  Charlton's  face  darkens  heavily  as  ho  reads  this. 
Naturally  he  is  choleric,  he  hates  to  be  thwarted  ;  by  tem- 
per he  is  iinperious,  although  as  yet  his  step-son  has  seen 
litth.'  of  this.  A  man  may  be  ^ood  humored  and  hot-tempered 
easily  enough  at  the  same  time.  He  has  never  very  strongly 
opposed  himself  to  Richard  Ffrench  as  yet,  he  has  been 
comparatively  a  i)oor  man  until  of  late,  and  never  felt  justi- 
fied in  coming  between  the  lad  and  his  whims.  \\w\.  now  it 
is  different.  \{  Dick  prefers  this  wandering  Dr.  Englehart 
to  him,  why  then  Dick  must  take  the  conse(iuences.  Dora 
has  hinted  something  to  him  today,  which  he  finds  it  diffi- 
cult to  believe — that  Kleanor  Charlton  has  refused  him.  Is 
the  girl  mad?  He  hardly  knows  how,  but  Dora's  talk  has 
irritated  him  to  a  most  unusual  degree  against  Richard.  Mis 
illness,  too,  has  matle  him  nervous  and  excitable.  The  line 
must  be  drawn  somewhere;  he  is  prepared  to  take  his  stand 
here.  Dick  must  pay  some  deference  to  his  wishes  ;  all  he 
has,  he  is  willing,  nay  anxious  to  give  the  boy.  It  is  a  noble 
inheritance.  He  loves  him  as  he  loves  nothing  else  on 
earth,  he  wants  him  with  him,  and  he  must  have  him.  He 
is  growing  old  ;  it  is  only  fair  his  son  should  stay  with  him, 
that  there  should  be  some  return  for  so  much  lavish  gener- 
osity and  aftection.  It  is  a  selfish  monologue,  partly  engen- 
dered by  irritating  pain,  partly  by  wily  words  of  Dora.  That 
is  a  charming  little  girl,  he  thinks — on  the  whole  he  begins 
to  prefer  her  to  Eleanor.  He  does  not  fancy  young  people 
under  a  cloud — then  Eleanor  has  a  mother,  and  as  a  perma- 
nence Mrs.  Charlton  is  not  to  be  desired. 

Outside  the  rain  pours  steadily  and  monotonously — inside 
there  are  silent  rooms  and  some  gloomy  faces.  Dora's 
spirits  never  flag  through  the  whole  of  it.  She  appoints  her- 
self sick-nurse,  she  writes  letters,  she  reads  aloud,  her  touch 
is  soft  and  soothing,  she  never  wearies,  she  manufactures 
her  own  sunshine,  and  brings  it  with  her  into  the  dim  cham- 
ber of  torture.     If  any  earthly  thing  or  creature  could  alle- 


T 


.gins 
ople 
uui- 

iside 
ora's 
her- 
)uch 
ures 
lam- 
alle- 


THE  END   OF   THE  FAIRY  TALE. 


9S 


viate  the  agony  of  rheumatic  gout — which  they  cannot — it 
would  be  Dora  and  her  doings. 

Night,  falls  wet  and  starless — another  morning  dawns. 
Still  tliL'  rain  cc;mes  down  persistently,  doggedly,  stiJl  the  sky 
is  lowering,  still  the  surf  roars  and  breviks  over  sand  and 
shingle.  Another  long  day  for  Vera  to  yawn  through,  and 
stare  blankly  out  of  blurred  window  panes,  to  wander  aim- 
lessly about  the  house.  She  visits  Kleanor  in  her  chamber, 
but  her  visi'  is  a  dreary  one.  Dot  is  taken  up  with  the  sick 
seigneur,  Mrs.  Charlton  is  like  a  gorgon,  these  days,  and  the 
girl  Hies  at  her  a|iproach.  Vera  has  heard  of  the  evil  eye, 
and  ponders,  whether  Eleanor's  awful  mother  has  not  got  it — 
a  pair  of  them  indeed.  And  where  is  Captain  Dick  ?  Oh  ! 
where,  in  all  this  world  of  rain,  ami  wind,  and  mist,  and  mis- 
ery, and  love-sickness,  and  gout,  is  Captain  Dick? 

Another  night,  another  day,  and  then  her  hero  comes. 

He  comes  after  breakfast,  looking  little  the  worse  for  wear. 
His  heart  may  be  broken,  but  he  has  neither  lost  vigor  nor 
good  looks.  On  the  contrary,  he  is  brighter  than  when  he 
left,  and  he  greets  Vera  with  the  old  pleasant,  half  mischiev- 
ous smile. 

Vera  is  glad,  but  a  trifle  disappointed  all  the  same  ;  it  is 
better  for  him  to  take  it  in  this  way,  but  it  is  not  the  way  the 
gentleman  in  Locksley  Hall  took  it,  or  that  other  poetical 
])arty  in  Lady  Vere  dt  V^ere.  They  scowled  and  gloomed, 
and  abused  their  youn5  women  (in  hexameters)  for  years 
after.      If  Dick  is  a  hero  it  is  his  duty  to  behave  as  such. 

Captain  Ffrench  has  come  to  see  his  step-father,  and  is 
ushered  by  Dora  into  that  dusk  temple  of  pain,  of  which  she 
has  elected  herself  priestess.  Mr.  Charlton  lifts  a  face  all 
drawn  and  haggard  with  two  days  of  torment. 

"  My  dear  governor,"  the  young  man  says,  leaning  over 
the  back  of  his  sof^i,  "  this  is  too  bad.  You  so  seldom  have 
an  attack  of  this  kind  in  summer  either.  How  did  you  rest 
last  night  ?     I  trust  the  pain  was  not  altogether  unbearable." 


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T//£  END   OF   THE  FAIRY  TALE. 


"  Rheumatic  gout  is  ahvays  unbearable,"  answers  Mr. 
Charlton,  angrily.  "You  need  not  ask  how  I  rested,  I 
never  rested  at  all.  1  have  not  slept  for  three  nights. 
Why  don't  you  come  home  ?  what  are  you  doing  over  there 
at  St.  Ann's?  Is  it  not  enough  that  1  must  be  laid  up  by 
the  legs,  but  you  must  desert  our  guests  too  ?  " 

*'  1  explained  all  that,  you  know,  governor,  in  my  note. 
Englehart  is  there " 

"  Englehart  be  hanged  !  What  have  you  to  do  with  that 
wandering  Ishmaelite  ?  Send  him  to  the  dogs,  and  return 
home  to  your  duty." 

"  That  hardly  sounds  like  you,  sir — I  don't  think  you 
quite  mean  it.  He  is  partly  on  the  invalid  list,  too,  and 
only  able  to  hobble  with  a  stick.  As  to  his  being  a  wander- 
ing Ishmaelite,  that  is  true  enough,  but,  unfortui-cUely,  /am 
of  the  Ishmaelitish  tribe  as  well." 

"  Have  been,  you  mean.  We  have  changed  all  that,  if 
you  remember." 

"Governor,"  says  Dick,  in  his  most    conciliating    voice 
"  that  is  what  I  have  come  especially  to  speak  to  you  about. 
I  gave  no  promise,  that  evening,  you  know,  I  only   said  i 
woidd  try.     I  have  tried — and  it  cannot  be  done." 

Mr.  Charlton  half  rises,  and  glances  angrily  at  the  young 
man.  Pain  and  sleeplessness  have  almost  changed  his 
nature  ;  he  is  morbidly  irritable,  and  Dora's  hints  are  rank- 
ling i)oisonously  in  his  mind. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  he  demands. 

"Don't  be  angry,  governor.  I  am  going  with  the  Expe- 
dition." 

Mr.  Charlton  is  staring  at  him — a  glassy  stare  of  amaze 
and  anger.  He  cannot  for  a  moment  take  this  in.  He  has 
made  so  sure  of  Richard — that  half  promise  extorted,  seems 
to  have  made  his  stay  a  certainty.  And  now  to  come  and 
tell  him  deliberately  that  he  is  going 

"  Don't  be  angry,"  Dick  deprecatingly  repeats,  **  I  hate  to 


THE  END   OF   THE  FAIRY  TALE.  95 

Offend  you-on  my  honor  I  do,  sir.     You  are  so  uncommonly 
good  to  me-alvvays  have  been-I  cannot  forget  it,  I  never 
will  forget  It.     J5ut  all  the  sam(^  I  want  you   to  let   me  ^^o 
Say  yes,  this  once,  sir,"  he  leans  over   him  coaxingly.  "ami 
It  shall  be  the  last  time.     I  promise  you  that." 

"You  will  do  precisely  as  you  please,"  Mr.  Charlton 
answers,  suppressed  passion  in  every  tone.  '*  I  withdraw 
all  claim  upon  you  from  this  hour.  You  are  eight-and- 
twenty— you  are  your  own  master.  Only  do  not"  let  us 
have  any  talk  of  goodness  or  gratitude ;  protestations  don't 
count  for  nmch,  when  every  action  of  your  life  gives  them 
the  lie." 

Dick  starts  up,  his  face  flushes  dark  red.     He  walks  away, 
and  begins  j)acing  up  and  down. 

-This  is  rather  hard,"  lie  says,  after  a  moment,  ''  what  am 
I  to  do  .?  I  wrote  to  Englehart  resigning  my  commission, 
and  he  and  the  rest  of  the  scientific  corps  refuse  to  accept. 
1  hat  IS  why  he  is  here.  He  holds  me  to  my  pledge.  What 
am  I  to  do?  I  ask  you,  governor;  in  honor  I  stand 
bound.     I  have  promised." 

There  is  no  reply.     Mr.    Charlton   is  so  intensely  angry 
that  he  is  afraid  to  allow  himself  to  speak. 

"  I  cannot  go  from  my  word,"  Dick  goes  on,  "  they  can- 
not  fill  my  place  at  a  moment's  notice,  and  the  Expedition 
cannot  afford  the  inevitable  delay.  Come,  sir  !  "  he  stoi)s 
before  him,  and  looks  down,  distressed  pleading  in  his  frank, 
honest  eyes,  "  be  reasonable.  Consent  to  my  going— it  will 
be  but  for  a  year  or  two,  at  most,  and  then  I  bind  myself  to 
devote  the  whole  remainder  of  my  life  to  you." 

"  You  are  exceedingly  kind  ;  I  am  sixtv-four  years  of  age, 
and  can  count  so  confidently  on  many  future  years  of  life! 
No,  sir,  I  refuse  my  consent.  You  must  choose  between  Ur 
Englehart  and  me,  between  Honduras  and  Charlton,  and 
you  must  abide  by  your  choice.  Both  you  cannot  have. 
Choose  which  you  please,  but  remember  your  choice  is  for  life." 


it''  :i 


1 


(     ^ 


it.«yii 


hi 


96 


THE  El^D   OF   THE  FAIRY  TALE. 


The  calm  young  eyes  look  steadily  clown  into  the  fiery  old 
ones. 

"  Docs  that  mean,  sir,  that  when  I  say  good-by  it  is  for 
good  and  all  ?     That  I  am  to  return  here  no  more  ?" 

"Exactly!"  Mr.  Charlton  answers,  and  the  fiery  glance 
never  flinches. 

Dick  draws  a  hard  breath,  turns,  and  resumes  his  walk. 
He  is  sincerely  attached  to  his  step-father,  and  feels  this 
blow  exceedingly. 

"If  you  go  with  Dr.  Englehart,"  Mr.  Charlton  says,  his 
voice  harsh  with  pain,  "  it  will  be  because  you  prefer  him  to 
me ;  prefer  your  own  roving  fancy  to  my  hai)i)iness  or 
wishes.  I  make  no  claim  u[)on  you,  you  are  free  to  go  if  you 
see  fit.  I  have  never  thwarted  you  before — I  am  resolute 
now.  If  you  go,  in  every  way  in  which  I  can  forget  you,  I 
will  forget  you — in  every  way  in  which  I  can  blot  your  mem- 
ory out,  it  shall  be  blotted  out.  You  understand  me,  sir — in 
every  way." 

"  You  talk  plainly,  governor — I  would  be  a  blockhead  in- 
deed, if  I  did  not  understand." 

"  As  to  your  promise  to  the  scientific  corps,  that  is  rub- 
bish. There  are  men  who  can  fill  your  place,  not  only  sons 
whose  duty  calls  them  at  home.  It  is  not  your  promise,  but 
your  inclination,  that  is  taking  you,  and  you  know  it." 

Silence.  Dick  walks  up  and  down,  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  with  downcast  and  disturbed  face.  The  elder  man 
watches  him  keenly. 

"  And  there  is  Miss  Charlton,"  he  resumes,  "  it  strikes  me 
your  honor — this  extremely  nice  and  touchy  honor  of  yours, 
Dick — is  at  fault  there.  You  have  paid  her  very  marked  at- 
tention, you  have  led  her  and  her  mother  to  believe  you 
meant  to  marry  her.  Is  it  in  accord  with  your  high  code,  to 
pay  such  attention,  and  then  desert  the  lady  at  the  last 
moment  ?     Or  have  you  spoken  and  been  rejected  ?  " 

Here  is  a  quandary  I     What  is  he  to  say  ?     If  the  truth,  he 


1 


THE  END    OF   THE  FAIRY  TALE.  ai 

comprcnises  Eleanor  irretrievably  as  far  as  his  father's  testa- 
".entary  uuenfons  are  cccerned,  and  she  is  so  poor  lo 
poor.  He  takes  his  l,a,uls  o„.  of  his  pockets,  and  run  i,ks 
"P  -  ha,r,  ,„  a  perfeet  fever  of  e„,barrass,nent  and  d  s    e  s 

I.  seetns  a  d.mcult  ,,„estion  to  answer,"  savs  Mr.  C     r  ! 

on,  sarcasttcally.     "  ^v■ell,  don't  perjnre  yourself,  „,y  la;       I 

kno.  all  about  ,t.     You  asked  and  she  refused-Ithe  j  de  ■  " 

Who  told  you  that  ? "  ■"        ' 

foll7'rt'if"'  ™'"-,    '''  "  •'  '"°''  "'"  '"-'  W  for  her 
lolJy.     But  If  you  are  leaving  on  her  account " 

"Governor,"  says  Dick,  anxiously,  "do  not-do  not  I 
beg,  let  tins  mHuence  you  against  Nf  iss  Charlton.  BVon,  first 
to  ast  she  never  gave  u,e  the  slightest  enco.„agen,eut  Do 
not  hold  her  accountable  for  her  n.other's  rash  pro,,,  for 

wo,nan   1   have  ever  met,  and-and  you  kno«.  her  life-one 

•den,nmon  gr,nd'  the  year  round.     Do  no.  punish  her  for 

what  she  could  not  help.     Be  generous  .ir  \r.  ,i 

lady  I  '•  beuerous,  s,r,  to  this  young 

"  Miss  Charlton  has  made  her  choice,"  Mr.  Charlton  an- 
s  vers,  coldly  ;  "  she  ,00  shall  abide  by  it.     We  will  no,  ,',1 
o^     ,s  poo,  young  la.iy,  if  yo„  p,ease-we  will  sett^  yo 
In";?.  "'•    '"'S'---''^"    l'™PO^e   leaving' St. 

"  In  a  few  days— ne.vt  week  at  the  furthest." 
"And  you  go  with  him  ?" 

"  I  must.     The  Expedition  starts  on  the  twenty-fourth." 

You  go  with  the  Expedition  ? "  -i"  '• 

"  It  is  inevitable.     Be  merciful,  sir !     I  would  rather  cut 

pledged.     My  word  has  been  given.     I  cannot  retract." 

,<  c  ""m,  *i!    ,    "°''  """=''  '"""<=>'  ''o  ro"  vvant  ?  " 
^  hir  !      Dick  reddens  through  his  brown  skin. 

How  much  n,oney  do  you  want  ?     I  presu.ne  the  scien 
t.fic  corps  will  not  supply  .//  your  wan!s.     Hand  me  my" 


\\ 


.11 


98 


THE  END   OF   THE  FAIRY  TALE. 


rlicck-book,  if  you  please — I  will  give  you  a  blank  check 
which  you  can  fill  up  at  your  leisure.  And  with  it  you  will 
kindly  consider  our  connection  at  an  end.  Any  intentions 
1  may  have  announced  regarding  the  disposal  of  my  prop- 
erty, so  far  as  you  are  concerned,  are  from  tiiis  moment 
withdrawn." 

Tile  flush  fades  from  Dick's  face,  his  lips  set,  his  eyes  flash, 
he  stops  in  his  walk,  and  regards  the  older  man  steadily. 

"  That  taunt  was  not  necessary,  sir.  Whatever  oi)inion 
you  may  have  held  of  me  in  the  past,  I  do  not  think  you 
ever  believe  the  consideration  of  your  fortune  influenced  any 
action  of  mine.  And  it  never  will.  Bestow  it  upon  whom 
you  please — no  one  in  the  world  has  less  right  to  it  than  I. 
1  have  but  one  parting  favor  to  ask — that  you  will  permit  me 
to  return  once  more  to  Charlton,  and  say  a  friendly  farewell 
Xo  youy 

He  takes  his  hat.  He  is  very  pale,  and  his  eyes  have  a 
pleading  look.     He  holds  out  his  hand. 

"Come,  governor,"  he  says,  "  we  cannot  part  like  this.  I 
am  afraid  I  look  like  an  ungrateful  dog,  but — but  I  know 
how  I  feel.  A  fellow  can't  put  that  sort  of  thing  into  words, 
but  by  Jove  I  am  sorry " 

He  breaks  off,  and  draws  nearer.  But  Mr.  Charlton, 
quite  ghastly,  betw<;en  bodily  pain  and  mental  emotion, 
waves  him  away. 

"  Such  a  parting  would  be  a  farce.  Come  home  to  stay, 
and  you  know  what  sort  of  welcome  awaits  you.  Go  with 
your  friend,  and  as  my  son  I  renounce  you.  There  can  be 
no  half-way  course." 

"Then  good-by,  since  it  must  be  so." 

He  turns,  opens  the  door,  lingers  yet  one  moment,  in 
hope  of  some  sign  of  relenting,  but  the  invalid  lies  with 
closed  eyes,  spent  and  exhausted.     And  so  Dick  leaves  him. 

Is  it  fancy,  or  does  he  hear  the  rustle  of  skirts  away  from 
the  door  ?     He  is  too  perturbed  to  tell,  but  a  second  after, 


w 


THE  END    OF   THE  FAIRY   TALE. 


99 


Dora's  smiling  little  face  looks  out  at  him  through  another 
half-open  door. 

"  CJoing  again,  Captain  Ffrench  ?  Will  you  not  stay  to 
luncheon  ?  iVo  ?  How  unkuid  of  you  !  How  long  is  your 
tiresome  friend  gcjing  to  keep  you  over  in  St.  Ann's  ?  Send 
him  back  to  New  York,  and  come  home.  We  all  miss  you  so 
much." 

Dick  smiles  at  the  ])lainlive  tone,  and  runs  down-stairs. 
He  distrusts  this  little  woman — he  knows  she  does  not  mean 
a  word  she  is  saying— he  knows  she  dislikes  him. 

"  Where  is  Miss  Vera  ?  "  he  asks. 

"  Waiting  for  you,  somewhere.  The  child  has  been  mop- 
ing herself  to  death  in  your  absence.  In  common  humanity 
to  her,  you  really  ought  to  return.  Do  come  back,  Captain 
Ffrench  !  " 

She  waves  her  little  white  hand  gayly,  and  trips  away  to 
the  sick-room.  The  smile  fades  from  Dick's  face,  he  si-dis 
impatiently,  as  he  strides  down  the  hall,  and  takes  a  last  look 
at  everything. 

"  It's  uncommonly  hard,  by  George  !  "  he  thinks  moodily. 
"  I  hate  like  the  deuce  to  row  with  the  governor,  but  what  ani 
I  to  do  ?  Englehart  claims  me,  and  he  claitns  me,  and 
whose  claim  is  best  ?  It's  a  nniddle— ah  !  my  little  Vera  ! 
I  was  just  going  in  search  of  you.  I,et  me  look  at  you. 
Why,  you  are  actually  looking  i)ale.     What  is  the  matter  ?  " 

•*  Nothing,"  the  girl  says,  all  her  great  gladness  in  her 
shining  eyes,  "  since  you  have  come  !  How  lorjg  you  have 
been  away,  Captain  Dick." 

He  smiles  down  into  the  artless  child's  e>es,  pleased  and 
soothed. 

"  Has  it  seemed  long  I  It  was  the  weather  and  not  my 
absence,  I'll  wager  a  ducat.  You  would  never  have  missed 
me  if  the  sun  had  shone." 

"  Ah  !  you  know  better  than  that,"  Vera  answers,  heaving 
a  sigh  of  vast  content.     How  good,  how  pleasant,  how  com- 


100 


THE   END    OF   THE  FAIRY   TALE. 


%      ii 


fortahle  it  seems  to  have  Captain  Dick  at  home — to  hear  his 
deep  tones,  to  see  his  lofty  stature  in  this  household  of 
women.  It  gives  the  last  touch  to  the  perfection  of  her 
P-uadise.  "  \i  the  sun,  and  moon,  and  stars,  all  shone  to- 
gether, I  wouUl  miss  yon  just  the  same." 

"  Hy  Jove  !  "  he  says,  and  laughs,  ''  how  flattering.  I 
thought  my  vanity  had  received  its  death-blow  the  other  day, 
b,it-l— "  ^ 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,"  Vera  interrupts,  hastily.  "  Oh, 
Captain  Dick,"  clas[)ing  her  hands,  "what  will  you  think  of 
me  !  I  was  there,  I  overheard  all  !  At  least  I  heard  you — 
and  Miss  Charlton  said — oh  !  don't  be  vexed,  please  !"  im- 
ploringly, "  I  was  asleep  on  the  sofa,  and  the  room  was  so 
dark,  and  you  both  came  in  while  1  was  lying  there,  and 
didn't  see  me,  and  when  I  awoke  you  were  talking  and " 

A  light  breaks  upon  Dick.      His  face  grows  grave. 

"  And  you  told  the  gov — Mr.  Charlton,  Vera  ?  " 

*'  Oh,  no,  no  !  1  told  Dot — no,  I  didn't  tell  her — she  found 
me  sitting  in  the  hall,  and  seemed  to  know  all  about  it.  I 
have  wanted  to  tell  you  ever  since.  I  never  said  a  word  to 
any  one  ;  I  would  not  do  anything  so  mean." 

"  Not  even  to  Miss  Charlton  ?  " 

"No.  I  think  Eleanor  is  horrid — I  can't  bear  her  ever 
since.  At  least,  I  don't  quite  mean  that,  you  know,  I  think 
she  is  just  lovely,  only " 

Captain  Ffrench  smiles  again.  The  outspoken  honesty 
and  simplicity  of  this  little  girl  have  amused  him  from  the 
first ;  her  unconcealed  fondness  and  admiration  for  himself, 
flatter  him  as  a  matter  of  course.  Captain  Dick  is  emi- 
nently mortal,  and  in  no  interesting  little  weakness  above 
his  sex. 

"  My  dear  little  Vera  I  "  you  are  the  stanchest  of  friends, 
and  the  dearest  little  woman,  without  exception,  in  the 
world.  1  wonder  now,  if  you  will  writ  t  to  me,  when  I  am 
down  there  among  the  silver  mines.     I   am   sure  you  write 


THE  END   OF   THE  FAIRY  TALE. 


lOI 


charming  letters — and  tell  me  all  about  yourself  and— yes— 
about  Dot  !  " 

Vera's  eyes  dilate— she  stands  still  and  looks  u[)  at  him  in 
blank,  sudden  terror. 

"  Down  among  the  silver  mines  !  What  silver  mines  ? 
You  are  not  going  away,  Cai)tain  Ffrench  ?  " 

**  Ah  !  but  I  am,  and  you  will  be  a  tall,  fliscinatirj  young 
lady  long  before  I  come  back.     lint  you  are  not  to  forget  me, 

mind.     I   shall  look  for  those  letters Why,  Vera,  my 

dear  !  *' 

She  has  turned  away  from  him,  and  covered  her  face  with 
her  hands.     The  blow  is  so  sudden,  so  sharp. 

"Vera,"  he  says,  "  my  dear  little  Vera!"  Hut  she  does 
not  look  up.  "  Why,  my  pet,  are  you  so  sorry  as  this  !  I 
did  not  think— Vera  1  "  He  tries  to  take  her  hands  away, 
but  she  struggles  and  resists. 

"  Oh  !  don't,"  she  says,  in  a  stilied  voice,  "  let  me  be.  It 
—it  isn't  that  !  "  struggling  bravely,  "  I— I  think  I  am  ner- 
vous.     It  is  the  weather " 

"  Of  course  it  is  the  weather,"  he  returns,  promptly  ;  "  be- 
ing shut  up  in  the  house  so  much,  is  enough  to  give  any  one 
the  horrors.  And  it  is  a  little— just  a  little— that  you  are 
sorry,  too  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  I  am  sorry  !  I  am  sorry  !  I  am  sorry  !  "  she  says, 
and  breaks  down.  The  last  barrier  gives  way,  and  she  sobs 
with  all  her  heart. 

There  is  only  one  sort  of  consolation  for  trouble  of  this 
kind,  that  Captain  Dick  knows  of,  and  that  is  to  take  her  in 
his  arms,  and  give  her  a  kiss.  Words  are  failures.  He  is 
pleased,  he  is  touched,  he  is  embarrassed,  he  feels  inclined 
to  laugh.  She  is  such  a  child,  such  a  simpleton— not  that  he 
thinks  her  a  simpleton— not  at  all.  Such  a  tall  child,  too,  up 
to  his  shoulder,  now  that  they  stand  in  this  delicate  i)rox- 
imity. 

"  Don't,  Vera,"  he  says,  "  please  don't.     If  anybody  came. 


102 


THE  END    OF   THE  FAIRY   TALE. 


I    '  t 


il 


M 


1         i: 


ij 


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w 


There!  let  nie  wipe  them  away;"  he  takes  out  his  handker- 
chief, and  i)erforMis  this  needful  office.  "  Don't  cry  any 
more.     And  you'll  promise  to  write  to  me  when  1  am  gone  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  yes,  yes." 

"  And  you  won't  forget  me  ?  " 

"Oh  !  no,  no."     (A  fresh  Hood.) 

"And  you  will  let  Daddy  take  you  out  in  the  Nixie?  It 
will  do  both  you  and  the  Nixie  good." 

"No!"  Vera  cries,  "no!  1  will  never  set  foot  in  the 
Nixie  again  !  Oh  !  what  must  you  thhik  of  me  for  crying 
like  this.  Hut  it  is  so  horrid  to  have  p — p — people  you  like 
go  away  to  hateful  places,  and  n — n — never  come  back  !  " 

"  lUit  I  am  coming  back,  my  dear,  in  two  years." 

Two  years  !  why  not  two  centuries — in  the  eyes  of  sixteen 
are  they  !-.ot  the  same  ?  Vera  battles  heroically,  it  does  not 
become  her  to  ci-y,  though,  to  do  her  justice,  the  real  concern 
she  sees  in  Captain  Dick's  face  is  the  more  powerful  motive. 
And  yet  that  ([uestionable  smile  of  his  lingers  in  his  eyes. 

"  Well,  now,  Vera,  it  is  all  right  again,  isn't  it  ?  I  am 
going.  No,  it  is  not  good-by  '  for  good  '  this  time — I  shall 
be  back.  Oet  up  early  to-morrow — the  rain  is  over  for  the 
present,  and  I  and  the  Nixie  will  be  waiting  in  the  old  place. 
We  shall  have  half  a  dozen  matutinal  sails  yet,  before  we 
say  adieu." 

Then  he  goes,  and  Vera  is  alone  with  her  desolation. 
What  will  Charlton  be  without  Ca[)tain  Dick  ?  All  its  green 
beauty  will  be  but  a  fleeting  show,  for  her  illusion  given. 
The  Nixie,  the  island,  the  piano,  the  basket-carriage — all 
are  filled  with  poignant  memories.  Why — why  must  he  go  ? 
Why  did  this  hateful  man  at  the  hotel  ever  come  down  ? 
\Vhy  does  not  the  earth  open  and  swallow  Honduras  and  all 
the  silver  mines  in  the  world  ? 

She  goes  slowly  back  to  the  house.  The  trail  of  the  ser- 
pent is  over  everything;  all — all  recalls  the  lost  one.  In. 
the  hall  she  meets  Eleanor,  who  starts  to  see  the  pale,  tear- 


Tfrr:  end  of  t/ie  fairy  tale. 


103 


It 


bloltcd  clijck^    and  rcddcnctl  eyes  of  the  brii^hl  little  house 
fairy. 

*•  Why,  Vera,"  she  says,  and  puis  her  arm  about  her,  "  my 
dear  child  what  is  the  matter?" 

lUit  Vera  strikes  down  the  caressing  hand,  in  a  very  fury 
of  sudden  i)assion. 

"  Do  not  touch  me  !  "  slie  cries,  her  black  eyes  blazing, 
"  1  hate  you.  He  is  going,  and  only  for  you  he  wouldn't 
have  gone.  I  never  want  to  speak  to  you  again,  as  long  as 
I  live  !  " 

She  dashes  away  and  up  to  her  room,  flings  herself  on  her 
bed.  and  cries  passionately. 

Her  great  hero  is  going— after  that  the  deluge.  She  will 
never  see  him  again.  Years  from  now,  he  may  return,  but 
where  will  she  be.  He  will  have  forgotten  her,  and  she 
likes  him — oh  !  she  h"kes  him  !  she  likes  him 

"  I  wouldn't  cry,  if  I  were  you,"  says  the  placid  voice  of 
Dora.  She  has  entered  unheard,  drawn  by  the  sound  of 
vehement  sobbing  ;  "  there  is  not  a  man  on  earth  worth 
blearing  one's  eyes  for,  and  not  one  of  them  all  was  won  yet 
by  crying.  Ho  will  come  back,  my  dear,  and  then  if  you 
really  are  so  fond  of " 

Vera  starts  up,  goaded  beyond  endurance. 

''What  do  you  want  here  ?  Get  out  of  my  room.  Dot  ! 
How  do  you  know  I  am  crying  for— for  him  ?  I'm  not  / 
Go,  and  leave  me  alone." 

And  Dora,  laughing  to  herself,  goes.  Vera  is  alone.  And 
this  is  the  end  of  her  fairy  tale.  It  keeps  saying  itself  over 
and  over  in  her  mind— "And  the  prince  went  away  to  seek 
his  fortune,  and  never,  never,  never  came  back." 


w 


104 


aiiADDECK  ijunr. 


i  I 


ill*' 

iiB'- 

IH'' 

K^  ' 

!ii- 

CI  I  APT  KR    Xr. 


SHAD  DECK     I-IC  HT. 


HRKE  (lays  have  gone  by.  'I'o  the  casual  observer 
they  have  brout^ht  httle  change,  but  changes  there 
art'.  I''irst  and  chief,  Mr.  Charlton's  attack  is 
going  off;  in  a  week  he  hopes  to  be  about  again.  Next,  the 
rain  is  over,  and  once  niori'  there  is  sunshine,  and  eaily  rising 
on  Vera's  i)art,  rows  in  the  Nixie,  and  visits  to  Shaddeck. 
The  agony  of  parting  is  inevitable,  but  it  is  yet  two  days  o'f, 
and  Vera  never  crosses  her  bridges  until  she  conu.'S  to  thim. 
Cai)tain  Dick  is  still  to  be  seen,  to  be  heard,  to  be  admired 
— next  Thursday  will  surely  come,  but  this  is  only  Monday, 
and  there  are  yet  forty-eight  hours,  two  thousand  and  eight 
hundred  and  eighty  minute.^  between  her  and  desolation. 

It  is  the  evening  of  Monday.  P'.leanor  Charlton  sits  in 
her  room — she  s[)en(ls  most  of  her  time  there,  of  late,  and 
looks  out  with  dreary  eyes  over  the  fair  sununer  prospect. 
She  is  at  odds,  it  seems,  with  all  the  household,  her  mother 
most  of  all.  For  three  days  Mrs,  Charlton  has  not  spoken 
to  her — she  is  the  sort  of  i)erson  to  live  in  the  house  with 
you,  and  not  si)eak  to  you  for  a  month.  Not  that,  in  a  gen- 
eral way,  this  could  be  looked  upon  as  a  misfortune — rather 
the  opposite — but  it  is  sometimes  an  embarrassment.  Dora 
is  always  pleasant  ;  it  is  Doa's  role  to  smile,  and  smile,  and 
be  a  little  villain  ;  but  from  Dora,  P'deanor  has  instinctively 
shrunk  from  the  first.  Dora's  smiles  are  spurious  currency, 
not  sterling  coin.  Between  her  and  Vera,  a  cloud  hovers  ; 
it  is  six  feet  high,  and  answers  to  the  name  of  Captain  Dick. 
Mr.  Charlton,  on  the  occasion  of  I^leanor's  only  visit,  lias 
received  her  with  such  chilling  politeness,  that  she  never  had 
the  heart  to  go  near  his  study  ag:^in.     He  knows  all,  and  re- 


\ 


srrADnr.cK'  light. 


105 


f 


sents  her  refusal.     Captain  Ifrench  is  going  away,  ami  she  is 
responsible,  it  seems.     Cliarllon  is  no  longer  a  home,  even  a 
temporary  home  for  her.     She  has  thought  the  matter  out, 
and   made   up   her  mind   to  go.     She  had   Intended  to  stay 
until  the  end  of  the  month,  but  that  is  impossible  now.    Oh  ! 
if  she  could  have  but  foreseen,  and  never  come.     Slie  is  pay- 
ing dearly  for  her  fidelity  to   one  whom,    deep  down   in   her 
heart,  she  knows  to  be  unstable  as  water,  yielding  as  shifting 
sand.     The  knowledge  is  there,  but  she  will  not  listen.     Loy- 
ally she  forces  herself  to  h()i)e,   to  trust,  to  believe   in   this 
man,   to   whom — how,   she   knows   not— she  has  given   her 
heart.     She   cannot   recall  the  gift,  because  growing  fear  is 
upon   her   that   he  is  unworthy,  selfish,  cowardly,  .ielf-iuilul- 
gent,  lazy.     Circumstances  are  against  him— it  is  not  his  will 
that  is  in  fault— by  nature  he  is  indolent  and  without  earnest- 
ness of  pur[)ose,   and  nature   is  an  obdurate   foe   to   fmht. 
1  ime,  age,  love  for  her,   will  work  wonders  ;  so  she  forces 
herself  to   believe.      She   respects,   admires,    likes,   esteems 
Richard  Ffrench.     He  is  in  earnest  :  with  all  his  mi^ht  he 
does  the  thing  which  his  hand  finds  to  do.     Life  to  him  is  no 
vapid,  wearisome   day,  to  be  yawned   through   anyhow  ;  he 
has  energy,  resolution,  force  of  character,   strength,  all  that 
she  prizes  most.     Jf  Ernest  were  but  like  him  !     And  then, 
indignant   with   herself,   she  banishes   the  disloyal    thought. 
Whatever  Ernest  is,  he  is  hers.     She  has  chosen,  and  she 
will  be  faithful  to  her  choice. 

It  is  a  sultry  and  overcast  evening.  It  has  been  at  its 
hottest  and  fieriest  all  day  ;  just  now  black  clouds  are  risintr, 
and  there  is  that  oppression  in  the  air  which  betokens  a 
thunder-storm.  There  is  not  a  breath  of  wind  stirring,  na- 
ture stands  motionless,  bracing  itself  for  the  coming  shock. 
Presently  Eleanor  rises,  and  goes  to  her  mother's  room.  It 
is  the  hour  before  dinner,  and  she  knows  she  will  find  her 
there.  She  is  paler  than  usual,  she  has  lost  flesh  and  strength 
in  the  past  week,  she  feel^  very  little  like  the  ordeal  before 


r  l.l 


io6 


SUA  DDE  CK  LIGHT. 


her.     But  it  must  be  met,  and  Eleaiwr  Charlton  is  not  the 
woman  to  shrink  plain  duty. 

Mrs.  Charlton  sits  hem-stitching  a  fine  pockethandker- 
chief ;  she  does  not  deign  to  glance  up  as  her  daughter  en- 
ters ;  her  dumb  familiar  still  holds  possession  of  her. 

"  Mother,"  Eleanor  says,  plunging  into  the  worst  at  once, 
"  I  am  going  away." 

No  reply  ;  Mrs.  Charlton  stitches  away  with  the  steadiness 
of  a  machine. 

"1  am  unhappy  here ;  I  have  displeased  Mr.  Charlton, 
offended  Captain  Ffrench,  and  angered  you.  It  is  impossi- 
ble for  me  to  stay.  I  am  sorry  I  came — sorrier  than  sorry  ; 
nothing  remains  for  me  but  to  leave  at  once." 

Silence.  An  angry  red  is  rising  over  Mrs.  Charlton's  large 
fleshy  face,  but  her  lijjs  only  tighten  into  a  tenser  line. 

"  I  have  money  sufficient  to  pay  my  travelling  expenses," 
Miss  Charlton  steadily  goes  on.  She  knows  her  mother,  and 
this  speechless  form  of  sulks,  too  well  to  be  surprised.  "You 
need  not  necessarily  shorten  your  stay  before  the  beginning 
of  September  ;  no  one  can  blame  you  for  my  acts.  I  am 
very  sorry,  mother,  sorry  that  I  have  pained  our  kind  host, 
sorry  to  have  disappointed  you  ;  but  I  could  not  have  acted 
otherwise.  I  will  leave  on  Thursday  morning,  and  will  in- 
form Mr.  Charlton  of  my  resolution  to-day.  He  will  not 
object  to  my  going,  he  will  see  that  it  is  inevitable." 

Still  mute.  If  Mrs.  Charlton  were  deaf  and  dumb  she 
could  not  give  less  sign  that  she  hears.  Words  are  useless  ; 
has  she  not  tried  again,  and  again,  and  yet  again,  threats, 
scoldings,  denunciations,  commands,  entreaties,  tears.  She 
has  run  up  and  down  the  whole  gamut — in  vain.  Of  what 
use  is  it  to  waste  eloquence  on  such  a  heartless,  undutiful 
daughter  as  this  ? 

"  If  you  would  but  forgive  me,  mother,"  Eleanor  says, 
wistfully,  and  at  the  words,  as  flint  strikes  fire  from  steel,  the 
spell  is  broken,  and  the  infuriated  woman  bla/.es  forth  : 


SHADDECK  LIGHT. 


107 


"  I  will  never  forgive  you  !  "  see  cries,  '*  never,  so  help  me 
Heaven  !     I  will  never  forgive  you  in  life  or  in  death  !  " 

********* 

In  her  bedroom,  Vera  stands  before  the  glass  putting  the 
last  touch  to  her  dinner  dress,  and  eyeing  herself  with  ex- 
treme disapproval.  How  thin  and  long  her  face  is,  to  be 
sure,  how  unnecessarily  like  black  saucers  her  eyes,  how 
particularly  unlike  a  rosebud  her  mouth,  how  excessively  un- 
classical  her  nose,  how  idiotically  low  her  forehead,  how  yel- 
low, and  sallow,  and  ugly  her  complexion  !     No,  her  skin 

Dot  has  a  complexion,  Vera  a  skin.      What  a  black,  kinky, 
untidy  brush,  her  hair.     Yes  !  she  is  one  of  the  tribe  of  Ugly 
Ducklings,  and  never,  never,  will    she   transmogrify  into  a 
swan.     Ah  !  no  ;  sallow  skin,  thin  cheeks,  crane  neck,  tar- 
black  hair,  owl  eyes— that  is  to  be  the  melancholy  record  to 
the  bitter  end  !     With  a  great  sigh  she  turns  away  from  the 
mirror.     Hitherto  her  looks  have  troubled  her  very  little ; 
she  has  accepted  the  fact  that   she  is  a  colored  person,  and 
not  a  good-looking  colored  person  either,  as  one  of  the  great 
incontrovertible  facts  of  life,  but  of  late  this  painful  truth  has 
been  brought  home  to  her,  in  an  altogether  new  and  depress- 
ing light.     If  she  were  only  the  least  little  bit  pretty  !  If  she 
only  had  the  least  little  flesh  on  her  bones  !     Vera  is  sadly 
conscious  that  she  has  an  abnormal  tendency  to  bones.     If 
she  only  had  red  cheeks,  a  Grecian  nose,  anything,  anything. 
But  she  has  not  an  atom  of  prettiness  about  her.     She  is 
lank,  she  is  bony,  she  outgrows  her  clothes,  she  is  dark  and 
colorless,  she  always  will  be,  and— and  what  a  homely  little 
mortal  Captain  Dick  must  think  her. 

"  I  think  I  look  like  Daddy,"  muses  Vera,  gazing  mournfully 
at  what  she  sees  in  the  glass.  "  I  really  think  I  have  a 
family  resemblance  to  Daddy.  Perhaps  that  is  why  Captain 
Dick  takes  pity  on  me,  and  makes  much  of  me.  He  does 
the  same  with  Daddy.     Daddy's  wrists  and  ankles  protrude 


io8 


SNA  DDE  CK  LIGHT. 


\  l: 


:       Ml 


unpleasantly  from  his  clothes — so  do  mine.  Daddy  has  a 
complexion  like  a  tallow  candle — so  have  I.  Daddy  runs 
frightfully  to  joints  and  knuckles — so  do  I.  Yes,  I  am 
enough  like  Daddy  to  be  a  long-lost  sister." 

She  turns  away  disgusted,  goes  to  the  window,  leans  her 
folded  arms  on  the  sill,  and  gazes  disconsolately  out.  And 
yet  that  Creole  face,  fran)ed  in  green  leaves,  a  dark-red  ribbon 
in  the  "tar  mop,"  would  hardly  be  pronounce!  .ji  ugly  one 
by  most  observers.  Those  two  velvet,  black,  soft,  deep, 
lustrous  eyes  would  redeem  any  countenance,  and  despite 
the  sallowness,  and  the  thinness  of  a  rapidly  growing  girl, 
there  are  the  serene  lines  of  beauty  of  no  common  ordei. 
In  spite  of  her  own  opinion,  she  is  exactly  the  sort  of  Ugly 
Duckling  that  is  certain  to  grow  into  a  handsome  swan. 

How  hot  it  is  !  That  is  the  only  idea  she  has  been  con- 
scious of  all  day.  It  has  been  a  blank  day,  blank  from  its 
very  beginning.  For  some  reason  Captam  I3ick  was  not  at 
the  place  of  tryst,  this  morning,  and  Vera  and  the  Nixie  were 
left  at  their  UKJorings  lamenting.  The  house  has  been  dull 
as  death,  the  people  gloomy,  the  day  hot.  vShe  always  comes 
back  to  that  ;  her  mind  goes  round  in  a  circle,  and  always 
returns  to  its  starting-point — the  heat. 

"Perhaps  1  am  falling  into  my  second  childhood,''  thinks 
Vera,  despondently;  "I  have  hrard  of  such  things.  If  the 
weather  makes  dogs  go  mad,  why  shouldn't  it  make  people 
idiotic?  And  oh  !  how  hot  and  hateful  the  whole  world  uii! 
be  after  Thursday  afternoon." 

She  siglis  impatiently,  and  stares  with  gloomy  eyes  over 
the  prospect.  How  lovely  she  thought  it  three  weeks  ago  ; 
what  a  blank,  hollow,  unsatisfactory  sort  of  a  thing  it  is  to- 
day !  What  is  the  use  of  a  place  being  lovely,  if  people  will 
not  stay  in  it  ?  Why  was  Central  America  ever  discovered  ? 
It  was  some  of  Christopher  Columbus'  work,  she  supposes 
— these  navigators  and  discoverers  are  certainly  \cry  offi- 
cious and  much  overrated  people.     Oh  !  dear  /loztj  hot  it  is) 


I 


0t 


SHAD  DECK  LIGHT, 


109 


and  those  black  clouds  up  there ;  of  course  it  is  going  to 
hghten  and  thunder,  nothing  will  do  it  but  that. 

Vera  is  mortally  afraid  of  lightning  and  tliunder,  she  always 
takes  refuge  in  the  cellar  if  there  is  one  available,  her  eyes 
hermetically  sealed,  her  ears  corked  with  her  index  fm-ers. 
As  if  she  were  not  unhappy  enough  without  having  to  spend 
the  evening  in  a  cellar  !  Oh  !  how  hot-then  she  stops.   The 
httle  basket  phaeton,  with  its  blue  umbrella  top,  comes  brisk- 
ly up  the  drive,  with  IJora  inside.      Dora  has  been  to  town  on 
an  errand   for  Afr.    Chariton,  and   is  now  returning.     How 
pretty  she   looks,  Vera  thinks,  in   that  white  chip   hat,  and 
ostrich   tips,  and   blush  roses,  a   tlimsy  white  vail   strapped 
across  her  delicate   morsel  of  a  nose,  her  rose-lined   parasol 
casting  a  warm  tint  over  her  too  pale  face.     Ah  !  where  are 
Captain  Dick's  senses,  that  he  has  no  relish  for  golden  hair, 
pearly  skin,  azure  eyes,  and  a  f^iiry  form.     Then  Dora  looks 
up,  I  '^d  sees  her. 

_    ''Oh,  Vera  !  "  she  exclaims.     There  is  unusual  animation 
in  Dora  a  look  and  tone,  "  have  you  heard  ?  " 

"  I  have  heard  nothing,"  says  Vera,  in  a  melancholy  voice, 
"  seen   nothing,  done  nothing,  and  never  expect  to  a^ain 
What  is  it  ?  "  °      ' 

"  Captain  Ffrench " 

Vera  starts  up,  all  listlessness,  all  mild  melancholy  gone, 
at  that  magical  name. 

"  Cai)tain  Ffrench  has  met  with  an  accident— I  heard  it 
over  at  St.  Ann's,  and  is  very  badly  hurt." 

There  is  a  cry  ;  a  sharp,  sudden  cry,  as  if  she  had  been 
struck.  Then  Vera  is  motionless,  but  in  that  instant  every 
trace  of  life  and  color  has  faded  from  her  face. 

"He  was  out  driving,"  pursues  Dora,  airily,  *' with  that 
man.  Dr.  Englehart,  you  know,  and  it  seems  the  horses  took 
fright  at  a  passing  train,  and  started  oif  at  a  gallop.  The 
carriage  was  overturned,  in  spite  of  all  Captain  Ffrench's 
efforts,   and   they  were   both    thrown   out.     Dr.    Englehart 


I 


no 


S II ADD  EC K  LIGHT. 


escaped  scot-free,  but  the  poor  overgrown  Dick  has  broken 
himself  somewhere,  his  arm,  or  his  shoulder,  or  his  neck — I 
really  am  not  sure  which." 

There  is  no  rei)ly.  Vera  kneels  as  she  was,  the  same,  yet 
different.  Rigid  now,  her  hands  locked,  her  face  blanched, 
her  eyes  all  blind  and  black  with  great  swift  horror.  She 
does  not  try  to  si)eak,  she  just  kneels  there,  and  stares 
blankly  down  at  the  speaker. 

"  Vera  '  VVh}',  good  Heaven  !  You  little  idiot !  I  be- 
lieve you  are  going  to  faint  !  " 

She  darts  into  the  house,  up  the  stairs,  flies  swiftly  into 
Vera's  room,  and  seizing  her  by  the  shoulders,  shakes  her 
with  no  gentle  hand. 

"  You  little  fool !  if  you  faint  I  will  never  forgive  you.  I 
tell  you  he  is  not  dead — more's  the  pity — such  great  hulking 
fellows  as  that,  in  everybody's  way,  don't  die  so  easily.  He 
has  put  his  shoulder  out,  that  is  all.  Now  come  back  to  life, 
or  1  will  shake  all  there  is  left  out  of  you  !  " 

She  is  quite  white  with  anger  and  alarm.  Vera  lifts  her 
eyes,  into  which  the  old  look  slowly  returns. 

''  I  thought  he  was  killed,"  Fhe  says,  in  a  whisper. 

"  Oh  !  you  thought,  you  thought !  "  retorts  Dora,  crossly, 
"  a  nice  fright  you  have  given  nie  for  nothing.  My  heart  is 
beating  like  a  trip-hammer.  It  serves  me  right  for  telling 
you  anything  about  it.  I  might  have  known  what  a  perfect 
simpleton  you  are." 

*'  Oh  !  Dot,  don't.     Where  is  he,  please  ?  " 

"  Where  he  ought  to  be — out  of  everybody's  way,  in  his 
hut  in  the  ocean." 

"Alone?" 

"  He  has  that  other  lunatic  with  him — \\\.'ii  protege^  Daddy 
Long  Legs." 

**  Dot,  tell  me,  is  he  badly  hurt  ?  " 

*'  How  do  I  know  ?  What  do  I  care  ?  I  only  hope  it 
wo.i't  prevent  his  going  off  on  Thursday.     Oh  !  you    may 


SHADDECfC  LIGHT.  i  i  j 

look  at  me  as  you  please  ;  I  detest  your  Captain  Dick.     Now 
Im  going  to  tell  IVfr.  Charlton." 

She  leaves  the  roon..  For  a  little  Vera  lingers,  a  wei,ht 
li^e  lead  on  her  heart.  Captain  Dick  hurt,  badly  hurt, 
sutlenng  pa,n,  alone  there  in  Shaddeck  Light.  What  if  it 
IS  worse  than  Dora  knows,  what  if  he  dies  !  At  that 
hough  she  starts  to  her  feet  and  puts  out  both  arms  as  if 
to  ward  off  some  direful  blow. 

c\l\  ^w^'  'rr  '''''  '"'•"'  ''  "°^  ^^^^^  •'     Oh  !  what  shall  I 
do?     What  shall  1  do  ? " 

She  stands  twisting  her  fingers,  bewildered  by  pain  and 
tc  ror.  Ihe  heat,  the  coming  thunder-storm,  his  departure, 
all  are  forgotten,  swallowed  up  in  this  new  dread  disaster. 

AV  hat  shall  she  do  ?  Go  down  when  the  bell  rings  and  eat 
her  dnmer?  No,  that  is  impossible.  Alone  there  with  only 
Daddy  !  Oh,  ,f  he  were  but  at  home,  if  she  could  only  do 
somethmg  only  tell  him  she  was  sorry.  Captain  D.ck 
helpless  and  suffering.  How  strange  a  thought,  how  in.pos- 
sible  to  take  it  in.  He  so  strong,  so  nunly,  so  full  of  life 
and  vigor;  it  seejus  as  if  pain,  or  weakness,  or  helplessness 
could  never  come  near  him. 

What  shall  she  do  ?  She  takes  up  her  hat  mechanically, 
and  goes  out  of  the  house.  The  closeness  of  the  air  seen's 
to  stifle  her  ;  the  lurid  sky  is  shutting  down  over  the  silent 
world,  as  the  dungeon  roof  shut  down  upon  the  fated  p.is- 
oner  ,n  the  ''  Iron  Shroud."  If  she  could  but  do  something 
-anything  !  To  think  of  his  being  there  alone,  with  no  one 
to  do  anything  for  him  but  that  stupid  Daddy.  The  thought 
gives  her  a  pang  of  absolute  physical  pain. 

She  is  out  on  the  high  road,  now.  All  the  world  has  come 
to  a  stand-still,  the  leaves  on  the  trees,  the  flowers  at  ner 
feet,  the  birds  in  the  branches,  the  sea  afar  off.  Is  nature 
waiting  breathlessly  for  the  first  crash  of  the  storm,  or  has  it 
gone  into  mourning,  like  Vera's  heart?  Dark  clouds  are 
rapidly  gathering,  but  she  never   heeds  them~she    who  so 


r^ 

;  ^ : 

i  ||; 

112 


SHADDECK  LIGHT. 


fears  storms — she  goes  on  and  on,  faster,  unheeding  the 
heat,  driven  by  "  some  spirit  in  her  feet,"  without  will  of  her 
own,  and  here  at  last,  breathless,  thished,  panting,  she  stands 
on  the  shore,  and  looks  across  the  mile  or  so  of  water,  at 
Shaddeck  Light. 

The  tide  is  ebbing.  In  half  an  hour — in  less — it  will  be 
possible  to  walk  over,  but  Dr.  Englehart  is  there,  and  even 
in  her  great  trouble,  she  is  shy  of  facing  a  strange  man.  It 
is  a  comfort,  a  poor  one,  but  a  comfort,  to  stand  heie  with 
longing  wistful  eyes  fixed  on  that  smallest  of  human  habita- 
tions. Overhead  the  clouds  are  still  blackening,  the  sea 
moans  dully,  now  and  then,  as  if  sullenly  conscious  of  what 
is  in  store  for  it.  And  still  Vera  stands.  She  will  be 
drenched  to  the  skin,  she  will  be  blinded  by  the  lightning, 
she  will  be  deafened  by  the  thunder,  she  will  be  frightened 
out  of  her  i^w  remaining  senses,  if  she  lingers  half  an  hour 
longer.  And  yet  it  is  hard  to  turn  and  go.  Her  anxiety, 
her  sympathy  are  so  great  that  in  some  mesmeric  way  they 
ought  to  reach  him  from  here.  Ah  !  here  is  Daddy  !  long- 
limbed,  blessed  Daddy  !     At  last  she  will  hear  of  our  hero. 

Daddy  comes  shambling  over  the  rocks,  looking  much  as 
usual.  He  is  attached  to  his  master,  with  a  dull,  doggish 
sort  of  attachment,  but  he  is  also  of  a  phlegmatic  turn,  and 
this  upsetting  of  all  things  works  no  apparent  outward 
change.  If  Vera's  eyes  were  twice  as  piercing,  they  could 
read  nothing  in  that  blank  page — his  face. 

"How  is  he?"  she  cries,  springing  forward.  "Oh, 
Daddy,  how  is  Captain  Ffrench  ?  " 

Daddy  eyes  her  stolidly,  and  does  not  quicken  his  custom- 
ary drawl. 

"  Waal,  I  guess  thar  ain't  no  change  to  speak  on.  He's 
kinder  pooty  much  the  same.  Air  you  a  goin'  over?  Dew; 
'twill  perk  him  up  quite  some." 

"  Daddy,"  Vera  demands  with  solenniity,  *'  Daddy,  1  ask 
you — will  he,  or  will  he  not  die  ?  " 


SriADDECK  LIGHT. 


"3 


Thus  put  upon  oath,  as   it    were,  Daddy  considers   with 
profound  seriousness. 

"  Waal,  1  reckon   not,"  is  his  conclusion.     -  I'm  a  goin' 
for  some  doctor's  stuff  over  to  the  town,  and  kent  stay." 
"  Is  Dr.  Englehart  with  him,  Daddy  ?  " 
Daddy  shakes  his  head,  and  shuffles  off,  and  again  Vera  is 
alone.       Shall  she  go  ?     He  is  there  and  suffering  ;  she  can 
retm-n  before  the  tide  rises.      Yes,  she  will  go.     She  knows 
her  way  over  those  slipi)ery,  sea-weedv  rocks,  she  has  crossed 
the  bar  many  a  tin.e,  but  never  so  (juickly,  so  fleetly  as  >mw. 
Ir.  a  few  mnu.tes  she  is  in  front  of  the  cottage,  the  handle  of 
the  door  m  her  hand.     She  turns  it  gently,  and  enters.     The 
darkness  of  the  nearing   storn.  is  in  the  room  ;   its  bareness. 
Its  lonehness  strikes  the  gul   with  a  sense  of  pain  altogether 
new.     VV  hat  a  desperate  place  to  be  ill  in-iU  and  alone. 

Ca,,tan.    PTrench    is   asleep.      He    lies   on  the   lounge,  his 
head  pillowed  on  his  right  arn,,  his  left  bandaged  ancfhelp- 
fss.      It  IS  his  arm   then  that  is  broken.       Ho\v  pale  he  is  ■ 
how  deeply  he  sleeps.      Vera  shuts   the   door,  tiptoes  ovei' 
anxiously  and  stands  gazing  at  him.       He  does   not   look  as 
hough   he   were  going   to    die,  certainly-nobody  dies  of  a 
broken  arm,  or  a  shoulder  put  out.     And  it  may  detain  him  • 
a  person  cannot  go  to  Central  America  W^^^z^,\  in  this  way' 
A  great  throb  of  hope  stirs  within  her;  if  the  accident  keeps 
hun  will  It  not  be  a  thing  to  rejoice  at  after  all  ^ 

Her  steady  gaze  disturbs  him  ;    he  stirs  impatiently,  and 
mutters  to  himself.     Vera  leans  down,  smiling,  to  hear  what 
he  IS  saying.      As  she  does  so,  he    opens  his  eyes,  stares, 
shuts  them,  reopens  them,  and  stares  again. 
"By  Jove!"  he  says,  in  amaze. 

"  Yes  it  is  me,"  says  Vera,  joyously,  discarding  grammar 
inhergluness,  "I  have  just  come.  Oh!  Captain  Dick, 
how  glad  I  am,  how  glad  1  am  !  " 

"  Glad  !  "  exclaims  Captain  J)ick,  aghast. 

"  Yes,  glad  that  it  is  only  your  arm.    I  thought  it  was  so 


BrrI 

■TT 

f       1'   '■ 

M  1 

1            1 

1 

'  "IL' 

11 

'   f\ 

>il 

' 

'!i:if 

f     rl 


f!  n 


I  '; 


114 


SHAD  DECK  LIGHT. 


imicli  worse.     You  don't  know  how  fnglUonod  1    was " 

Vera  stops  with  one  inipassionate  little  gesture.  Mere 
words  will  tell  so  little  of  all  that  is  in  the  heart. 

"You  dear  little  soul  !  "  says  Captain  Dick,  sitting  up  and 
holding  out  his  hand.  "And  you  came  here  the  moment 
you  heard  of  it,  I'll  be  bound." 

"Yes,"  replied  Vera,  "1  did  not  know— Dot  did  not  know 
— Daddy  did  not  seem  to  know  what  it  was.  And  it  seemed 
so  dreadful  for  you  to  be  alone  and  in  pain  here.  Is  it  your 
arm,  or  your  shoulder,  and  oh,  does  it  hurt  you  very 
much  ?  " 

He  does  not  answer  for  a  moment.  He  smiles,  and  holds 
her  hands,  and  sits  looking  at  her  with  a  look  Vera  does  not 
understand. 

"You  were  frightened  and  sorry,  and  you  ran  here  at  once. 
Little  Vera  !     little  Vera  !  what  a  trump  yoM  are  !  " 

"  And  it  is  not  very,  very  bad  ! "  persists  Vera,  sticking  to 
business,  and  ignoring  compliments. 

"Not  now;  it  hurt  like  the  deuce  at  first,  although  the 
shoulder  is  only  strained,  not  dislocated.  Those  horses 
pulled  like  a  pair  of  devils.  But  it  is  all  right  now,  or  will 
be  in  a  day  or  two,  and  it  would  be  worth  while  having  a 
whole  arm  amputated  for  such  a  proof  of  fidelity  as  this. 
Find  a  chair  and  sit  down.  Who  told  you  about  it  in  the 
first  place  ?  " 

*'  Dot.     She  was  in  town,  and  heard  there." 

"  Does  the  governor  know  ?  " 

"  Dot  will  tell  him." 

"  How  did  you  come  ?     But  you  walked,  of  course." 

"  Of  course.  The  tide  is  out,  and  I  must  not  stay,  or  it 
will  be  in." 

"  Oh,  there  is  no  hurry  ;  it  won't  be  in  for  hours.  I  was 
confoundedly  lonely  until  1  fell  asleep.  Knglehart  has  gone 
back  to  New  York  ;  had  to  go — unexpected  telegram — so 
your  visit,  a  god-send  at  any  time,  is  doubly  a  god-send  at 


Merc 


^JV  EVENING  A  T  SIIADDECIC  UGIIT.  ,  |  5 

present.     Take  off  your  hat-yes,  I  insist- Da.Wy  will  b,. 

"1-Me,  and  he  can  row  yoii  ashore  " 

Vera  laughs  and  obeys.     She  lakes  a  chair,  throws  her  hat 
on  another,  and  the  sin.,,e  action  is  the  turning-point  ^l  ,t 


CHAPTER  XII. 

AN    EVENING   AT   SHADDLCK    LIGHT. 

UT  why  did  you  come  here?"  inquires  Vera,  "snch 
a^Ioneson>e,  lonesonK-  place  to  be  sick  in,  Captain 

to  Lj,'::,:  Velf  r  '""■■■"  C»'«-'  ^ick,  -and  don't  intend 
"  Why  did  you  not  go  to  Charlton?"  persists  Vera  "itk 

thit 's-i;!!"       '°  '°"'  ™"  ^'"S  '°  -™"'  ^'«1  -ke  you  nice 

"Uon't,"says  Captain  Ffrencb,  "don't  Vera    I  h^„      r 

Z^VT\  '""■'  ""^""™  '"«  byreLlLg  a    '  IJ 

"St.     Don  ,  „,ake  n,e  feel  any  more  like  the  peri  outside  of 

laradrse  than  you  can  help.      You  are  con,i L  ,0    ee  n^e 

every  day  wh.le  I  an,  here  ;  yes,  and  you  will  rea°d  ,0  ,  c       d 

sincet' s,r"'.'r"';  ™'"1  "■"^■'"  "'""^^^^  D'^l^  -""  -  very 
since, e  s.gh  ,  "I  and  the  dear  old  governor  have  had  a  mi^. 


ii6 


AN  EVENING  AT  SHADDECK  LIGHT. 


understanding,  and — and,  in  short,  I  am  not  to  go  back.  Still 
1  think  I  shall  venture  once,  to  bid  you  all  good-by." 

"  You  will  really  go  then,  in  spite  of  all  this  ?"  touching 
tlie  wounded  arm,  her  heart  sinking  suddenly. 

"  In  spite  of  all  this.  It  would  take  a  good  deal  more 
than  a  crippled  arm  to  keep  me  from  Honduras.  1  sluvU 
have  tiuie  and  to  spare,  to  recover,  on  the  way.  1  shall  lie 
on  the  deck,  Vera,  and  smoke,  and  tiiink  of  you,  and  wonder 
what  you  are  about  in  the  sunny  September  days." 

"Ah  !  "  says  Vera,  "I  can  tell  you  what  1  will  be  about, 
very  easily.  1  shall  be  back  in  New  York,  in  the  dull  old 
schoolroom,  teaching  piano  scales,  and  words  of  two  s)lla- 
bles  all  day  long.  Mrs.  Trafton — 'my  missis,'  you  know — 
brings  Moss  and  Lex  home  early  in  the  month,  and,  of  course, 
I  must  be  there." 

She  pushes  all  the  soft  dark  rings  of  hair  from  Jicr  forehead, 
with  a  restless  sigh.  How  hopeless  it  all  looks,  that  dreary 
school-room,  up  three  pair,  after  the  brightness  and  freedom 
of  Charlton  and  Captain  Dick.  How  monotonous  the  rou- 
tine of  Second  Readers,  and  "  one,  two,  three,  four,"  after 
the  sails,  the  drives,  the  woodland  walks  ;  how  deadly  dull 
the  tiresome  gabble  of  the  children,  after  the  brilliant  conver- 
sational powers  of 

"  Oh  !  "  she  cries  out,  in  a  voice  full  of  impatient  pain, 
"  how  horrid  it  all  is  ;  the  city,  and  the  noise,  and  the  ugli- 
ness, and  the  dreary  old  round  of  lessons  over  and  over,  for- 
ever and  ever." 

He  looks  at  her  in  pity.  She  is  such  a  child  ;  it  is  like 
caging  a  poor  little  forlorn  starling,  this  cooping  her  up  with 
school-books  and  black-boards. 

"  What  a  shame  ! "  he  says,  "  I  wish  I  could  take  you 
with  me  to  Central  America.  You  would  like  that,  would 
you  not,  Vera?"  Like  it?  Her  eyes  flash  with  cpiick  de- 
light. She  laughs,  then  sighs.  "And  Moss  and  Lex,"  he 
goes  on,  "  who  are  they  !     My  lady's  pair  of  pet  i)oodles  ?" 


|.^  iV 


AN  EVENING  AT  SIIADDECK  LIGHT. 


117 


pain, 
ugli- 
,  for- 

like 
with 

you 
tould 

de- 
■"  he 

?" 


*'  Poodles  !  "  indiLjnantly  ;  '•  they  are  Alexis  and  i-'lossilla 
'I'lafton,  nine  and  eight  years  old,  and  two  of  the  nicest  little 
things.  I  suppose  it  is  wicked  of  me  to  be  discontented  ; 
Mrs.  Trafton  is  ever  so  good  to  me,  and  the  children  love 
me  ;  but  1  do  not  like  teaching  ;  I  ought  to  be  at  school 
myself.  I  know  nothing  at  all.  You  see  it  all  happened 
when  I  was  so  young — only  ten,  Captain  Dick,"  lifting  two 
pathetic  young  eyes. 

"Yes,  dear,"  he  says,  tenderly,  "tell  me  about  it.  You 
lost  your  Hither,  I  know." 

"  1  was  twelve  when  papa  died.  He  was  killed  in  the 
second  year  of  the  war.  Dot  was  over  twenty  then — she  is 
only  my  half-sister,  you  know." 

"  V>y  the  by,''  says  the  captain,  struck  by  a  sudden  thought, 
"  what  is  your  name.  Vera?  Not  Lightwood,  1  know.  Curi- 
ous, that  in  all  this  time  1  have  never  heard  your  name." 

"  My  father  was  a  Cuban,"  Vera  answers,  "  his  name  was 
Martinez — Manual  Salvador  Mardnez.  I  was  christened 
after  his  mother,  Veronica  Mary." 

"  Veronica  Mary.  Then  I  have  the  honor  of  addressing 
the  Dofia  Veronique  Maria  Martinez  ?  " 

Vera  nods. 

*'  1  am  Vera  to  everybody,  and  all  who  know  Dot  call  me 
Vera  Lightwood.  My  grandmother  Martinez  lives  in  Cuba 
yet,  and  they  say  is  very  rich.  She  was  angry  with  pa[)a 
for  marrying  mamma,  and  never  would  speak  to  him,  or 
write  to  him  after.  When  he  died,  she  wrote  for  the  first 
time — such  a  cold,  proud  letter —  offering  to  take  me. 
Mamma  had  lost  her  fortune  then,  it  was  invested  in  South- 
ern bonds,  or  something,  and  our  house  was  burned  in  Sher- 
man's march.  Ah  !  it  was  a  dreadful,  dreadful  time.  I  was 
a  child,  but  I  remember  it  all  so  well.  It  killed  i)oor 
mamma.  And  to  think  that  j'^//  were  one  of  those  Yankee 
soldiers  I  used  to  fear  and  iiate  so  much  !  " 

"  I  was  not  in  Sherman's  army,  and  so  never  helped  to 


Ii8 


AN  EVENING  AT  S  IF  AD  DECK  IJGIIT. 


\ 


I      W^<^A 


i  A 


burn  your  home,  thank  llcavcii  !  Yos,  it  was  a  stirring,  glo- 
rious, tcrrihlc  tinic.  And  so  )our  mother  woulil  nut  let  y(JU 
go  to  (Irandinannna  Martinez  and  the  I'-ver-Faithful  Isle  !  " 

'•  No,  but  I  think  if  she  had  known  she  was  to  die  so  soon, 
she  would.  We  were  left  so  poor,  so  desolate,  so  utterly 
alone." 

"She  died  suddenly?" 

"In  one  moment.  Captain  Dick.  When  they  told  her 
papa  was  wounded,  she  went  to  hn)i,  and  stayed  until  he 
died.  He  died  in  a  week — torn  all  to  pieces,"  Vera  says, 
in  a  whisper,  her  dark  eyes  dilating,  •'  by  a  shell.  Then  she 
came  home.  We  did  not  see  nnich  difference,  she  was  al- 
ways pale  and  delicate,  like  Dot,  but  she  never  laughed  nor 
talked  as  she  used,  or  took  any  notice  of  me,  who  used  to 
be  her  pet ;  antl  one  day  as  she  was  talking  to  Miss  Scuddcr, 
she  just  laid  her  hand  on  her  heart,  gave  one  gasp,  and  fell 
back  in  her  chair,  dead  !  " 

There  is  silence.  Outside  the  darkness  is  ever  deepen- 
ing, around  them  the  sea  is  sullenly  washing,  fit  background 
for  Vera's  tragic  tale. 

"  It  was  heart-disease,"  she  goes  on,  after  a  moment,  dur- 
ing which  she  has  covered  her  face,  with  a  sob,  "and  (Dot 
would  not  like  me  to  tell  this)  she  will  not  talk  of  it,  nor 
think  of  it,  but  she  has  it  too.  It  is  hereditary  in  our 
mother's  family,  and  some  day  1  am  afraid " 

She  stops  ;  her  large  eyes  look  larger  and  blacker,  Ffrench 
thinks,  than  he  has  ever  thought  them  before. 

'*  1  would  die,  I  think,  if  anything  hap[)ened  to  Dot.  I 
have  nobody  but  her  in  the  world.  Captain  Dick,  you  know 
so  much,  do  you  think — do  you  think  Dot  will  ever  go  like 
that  ?  " 

"1  think  not,  I  hope  not,  I  am  sure  not,"  he  answers,  "  my 
poor  little  Vera !  " 

He  is  so  sorry  for  her,  she  is  such  a  childish  little  soul  to 
be  thrown  on  the  world,  to  fight  its  bitter  battles,  to  know  of 


' 


AN  EVENING  AT  S  HAD  DECK  L/U//T. 


119 


Mich 

It.     I 

mow 

like 

my 

lul  to 

)\V  of 


such  grisly  honors  as  these.  He  has  never  hvid  a  sister, 
never  thoiiglit  whether  he  wished  for  one  befori-;  but  he 
wishes  now  that  this  little  girl  with  the  li.irk  appealing  eyes, 
and  winsome,  innocent  ways,  were  his  sister. 

"  'I'hen,''  goes  on  Vera,  "  we  were  all  alone,  and  homeless, 
and  poor.  Only  for  Miss  Scudder,  an  old  maid  cousin  of 
manuna's,  who  ke|)t  our  house,  I  don't  know  what  would  have 
become  of  us.  Hut  the  next  two  years  passed  somehow. 
The  war  was  at  an  end,  we  were  still  without  a  home,  and 
poor,  poor,  poor  !  " 

She  breaks  off  A  great  Hash  of  lii^luning  bla/es  out,  fol- 
lowed by  a  dull  roaring  cannonade.  The  storm  is  upon  them 
in  its  might.     She  shrieks,  and  covers  her  eyes, 

'*  DcMi't  be  afraid,"  Dick  says,  reassuringly,  "what!  such 
a  little  heroine  frightened  by  a  thunder-storm  ?  Come,  sit 
with  your  back  to  the  window,  and  go  on.  You  do  not  know 
how  interested  I  am." 

The  crash  is  over  ;  it  is  so  dark  tliey  can  hardly  see  each 
other's  faces.  Captain  Ffrcnch  takes  her  two  hands  in  one  of 
his,  and  holds  them  fast. 

"  Now,"  he  says,  cheerily,  "  not  all  the  powers  of  earth 
and  air,  not  all  the  king's  horses,  nor  all  the  king's  men, 
shall  harm  you.  What  next  ?  What  did  you  and  Dot  do 
then  ?  " 

"  liefore  the  war,"  says  Vera,  creeping  up  close  to  her 
protector,  "  we  had  had  a  governess.  When  it  tirst  broke 
out  i)ai)a  sent  her  home  North,  but  she  had  left  us  her 
address,  and  Dot  wrote  to  her,  asking  her  to  help  us.  She 
wrote  back  at  once,  the  kindest  letter.  She  had  married, 
during  those  four  years,  a  very  rich  banker,  a  Mr.  Trafton, 
and  she  invited  us  to  her  house,  and  inclosed  money  to  pay 
our  way.     Now  was  that  not  kind  ?  " 

"Very  kind.  The  world  is  not  such  a  bad  sort  of  place 
after  all  as  the  cynics  try  to  make  it  out.  Now,  now,  now ! 
never  mind  the  lightning." 


.  N»- 


120 


AN  EVENING  AT  SHADDECK  LIGHT. 


i   i  1 


(        i 


"  But  it  is  so  awful.  Captain  Dick,  what  would  we  do  if 
it  struck  this  house  and  set  it  on  fire  ?  " 

"It  wont  strike,"  he  laughs,  "I  am  a  non-conductor. 
Well,  you  went  to  Mrs.  Trafton's  ?  " 

"  VV^e  went  to  Mrs.  Trafton's,  and  nobody  could  have  been 
kinder.  Mr.  Trafton  had  been  a  widower,  and  Lex  and 
Flossy  were  two  little  tots  no  bigger  than  that,  but  they  took 
the  greatest  ^ancy  to  me  at  once — you  can't  think  !  " 

"  Can't  1  ?  It  has  been  exactly  my  own  case.  1  stood  on 
the  bank,  that  morning,  and  looked  down  on  the  dearest 
little  black-eyed  fairy  in  the  world,  and  fell  in  love  with  her 
on  tlie  spot." 

"  Now  you  are  laughing  at  me.     If  you  are " 

"  I  am  perfectly  serious.  My  case  and  that  of  Lex  and 
Flossy  are  precisely  parallel." 

"  Well,  whether  you  are  laughing  or  not  they  did,  and 
Mrs.  Trafton  proposed  that  I  should  stay  partly  as  playmate, 
partly  as  governess,  at  a  small  salary.  Such  a  ridiculous 
governess,  Captain  Dick,  only  fourteen  !  " 

"  And  there  you  are  ever  since  ?  " 

"  Ever  since,  and  likely  to  be,  until  the  children  are  old 
enough  for  a  governess  who  knows  something.  /  know 
nothing,  nothing,"  says  Vera,  with  a  melancholy  little  shake 
of  the  head. 

"  What  becomes  of  Dona  Martinez,  then  ?  " 

"  Ah,  what  ?  goodness  knows.  I  have  a  talent  for  cook- 
ing ;  I  might  go  out  as  kitchen-maid.  I  suppose  Mrs.  Traf- 
ton will  get  something  for  me  ;  she  is  awfully  good.  But  I 
do  hate  teaching." 

* '  You  poor  little  soul !  "  Captain  Ff^ench  is  aware  that 
he  has  several  times  already  used  this  form  of  consolation, 
and  that  it  would  be  well  to  vary  it,  but  it  seems  to  fit  the 
case  as  well  as  anything  else. 

"And  Dot  hates  millinery;  I  mean  she  hates  being  a  lav 
figure,  and  trying  on,  and  showing  things  to  vulgar  rich  peo- 


It 


AN  E  VENING  A  T  SHADDECK  LIGHT.  1 2 1 

pie,  who  would  be  insolent  if  they  could,  only  Dot  never 
takes  airs  nor  insolence  from  anybody,  liut  it  is  a  stupid 
life  all  round,  and  in  the  long  hot  summer  tnne,  and  the  dull 

winter  days Eut    there  !  what    is  the  use    of  talking 

about  it.  Poor  we  are,  and  poor  we  will  be  till  the  end  of 
the  chapter.  Sometimes  I  wish  Mr.  Charlton  had  not  in- 
vited us  here.     It  makes  the  gomg  back  so  much  woise." 

"  1  wish  Mr.  Charlton  would  keep  you  for  good.  It  would 
be  a  capital  arrangement  on  both  sides.  If  things  were  as 
they  used  to  be  between  us,  I  would  ask  him.  Ah  !  by 
Jove !  that  2uas  a  crash  !  " 

A  crash  indeed.  It  shakes  the  light-house,  the  rocks  un- 
der it,  the  mighty  ocean  itself.  And  then  a  blaze  of  blue 
suli^hurous  light  zig-zags  through  the  room,  and  Vera  screams 
and  buries  her  face  on  his  shoulder.  He  draws  her  close, 
and  does  his  best  to  soothe  her,  but  he  can  feel  her  quiver- 
ing with  fear. 

"It  will  not  hurt  you,  you  are  perfectly  safe.  Vera! 
why  you  poor  child,  how  your  heart  is  beating.  How  sorry 
I  am  you  came." 

That  rouses  her  a  little. 

"  I— I  am  not  sorry,"  she  gasps,  "  it  would  be  just  as  bad 
over  at  the  house.  Oh,  Captain  Dick,  I  am  always  fright- 
ened to  death  in  thunder-storms.  Do  you— ^^  you  think  it 
will  soon  be  over  }  " 

"  It  will  be  ever  in  fifteen  minutes,"  returns  Captain  Dick, 
in  the  positive  tone  of  one  who  always  has  his  informa- 
tion from  headquarters,  ''and,  meantime,  neither  the  thun- 
der, nor  the  lightning,  nor  twice  the  hurly-burly  will  harm 
us.  Hark  !  there  is  the  rain.  It  is  only  a  summer  shower 
after  all.     Our  cyclone  will  be  over  in  a  moment  now." 

And  in  a  very  few  minutes  it  is  over.  There  is  a  torrent 
of  rain,  a  few  more  vivid  flashes,  a  i^ss  more  rumbling  peals, 
and  then  the  spirit  of  the  storm  draws  off  his  forces,  growling 
sullenly  as  he  goes.     There  is  but  the  fuiious  pour  of  the 


122 


AN  EVEN  IN  Cf  AT  SHADDECK  LIGHT. 


iil 


rain,  and  as  Vera  does  not  fear  thaf,  she  lifts  her  diminished 
head,  and,  rather  ashamed  of  herself,  looks  in  a  somewhat 
crest-fallen  fashion  at  her  companion. 

"  What  a  goose  you  must  think  me,  Captain  Dick.  But 
I  can't  help  it.  1  have  always  been  like  this.  I  wonder," 
suddenly,  "  what  keeps  Daddy  ?  " 

"  The  storm,  1  suppose.  He  doesn't  like  a  wetting  any 
more  than  his  betters." 

"  And  the  tide  is  turning  !  "  cries  the  girl  going  to  the 
window,  "it  must  be  nine  o'clock.  Captain  Dick,  the  tide 
is  turning." 

**  Let  it  turn.     What  is  the  tide  to  you  and  me  ?  " 

"  But  how  am  I  to  get  off?  how  am  I  to  go  home  ?  " 

"  Daddy  will  fetch  you.  He  will  come  off  in  a  boat  pres- 
ently, and  then,  after  supper,  can  row  you  ashore.  Come, 
don't  grow  anxious,  it  will  be  all  right." 

"Well — if  you  think  so — you  are  sure  Daddy  will 
come  ?  " 

"Quite  certain." 

*'  Because  if  he  did  not  you  know  I  could  walk  it.  The 
bar  is  still  clear " 

"  And  the  rain  is  still  pouring  in  bucketfuls.  Yes,  it  is 
so  likely  I  will  let  you  walk.  I'll  tell  you  what  you  may  do, 
little  Vera  :  does  my  memory  serve  me,  or  did  I  dream  you 
owned  to  a  genius  for  cooking  ?  " 

"  I  own  to  it.     It  is  my  one  talent." 

*'  And  you  are  not  afraid  of  blacking  your  hands  ?  " 

"  Not  a  bit.  Nature  has  made  them  so  black  that  art  nor 
soot  cannot  spoil  them." 

"  Verv  well  then.  Yonder  is  the  kitchen.  In  the  kitch- 
en  is  a  stove,  in  the  stove  is  a  fire,  left  by  forehanded 
Daddy.  On  sundry  shelves  are  various  articles  of  tin  and 
crockery  appertaining  to  the  cuisine.  In  different  canisters 
are  coffee,  tea,  milk,  etc.  Now,  suppose,  while  we  wait, 
you  get  up  our  supper.     I  am  consumedly  hungry.     And  if 


A  NIGHT  AT  SFIADDECK  LIGHT. 


123 


you  prove  to  have  the  culinary  skill  you  claim,  when  I  re- 
turn  from  Central  America,  with  my  fortune  made,  I  may  en- 
gage you  as  my  cook." 

_  Vera  needs  no  second  bidding.  She  goes  to  the  kitchen 
in  high  glee.  The  invalid  proposes  accompanying  her,  and 
supermtendmg,  but  this  she  will  not  hear  of.  A  true  artist 
permits  no  interference— an  artist  in  cooking  least  of  all 
He  is  to  remain  on  his  lounge  and  smoke,  if  he  likes,  and 
issue  no  orders,  and  prepare  to  be  enchanted  with  the  re- 
suit. 

The  lightning  has  quite  ceased  ;  the  rain  is  ceasing. 
Great  rifts  in  die  clouds  show  gleams  of  yellow  light.  It  is 
nine,  but  still  not  entirely  dark,  and  by  and  by  there  will  be 
a  moon.  Daddy  can  row  her  ashore  by  moonlight,  and  in 
si3ite  of  the  storm  this  will  be  an  evening  to  dream  of,  when 
Captain  Dick— ah  !  mournful  thought— is  far  away. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

A   NIGHT  AT   SHADDECK    LIGHT. 

HE  Dona  Veronique  Maria  Martinez  bustles  about 
among  the  crockery  and  canisters  mentioned  by  the 
master  of  the  house,  making  coffee,  frying  ham 
cutting  bread  and  making  toast.  Captain  Richard  Ffrench 
lies  at  ease,  half  smiling  as  he  watches  the  busy  little  figure 
flitting  about.  And  the  August  evening  wears,  and  the 
August  night  comes  trailing  darkly,  spangled  with  stars,  over 
the  world.  A  cool  wind  rises,  the  sea  washes  up,  in  steady 
deep  pulses,  the  minutes  fly,  and  Daddy  comes  not.  He 
pulls  out  his  watch  at  last.     "  Nine,"  he  says,  with  a  start. 


t' ' 


n 


I' 


1     :: 


124 


A   NIGHT  AT  SHADDECK  LIGHT. 


H      % 


"  Daddy  should  be  here.  What  can  keep  the  fool  ?  What  a 
pretty  pickle  if  the  Dona  should  have  to  stay  all  nigh*- — if 
Daddy  does  not  come  at  all." 

But  this  catastrophe  he  does  not  greatly  fear.  Daddy 
always  comes;  he  is  badgered  by  the  gamins  of  St.  Ann's 
whenever  he  shows  in  the  streets ;  he  will  not  fail  in  this 
crisis.  The  druggist  and  the  tempest  combined  have  detained 
him.  And  then  /era  appears  in  the  door-way  freighted  with 
a  large  tray,  the  odors  from  which  are  as  nectar  and  ambro- 
sia, and  twice  as  substantial.  This  she  places  on  a  table, 
wheels  it  up  to  the  invalid's  couch,  lights  a  lamp,  and  sets  it 
in  the  middle.  She  arranges  her  edibles,  and  takes  her  seat 
to  preside,  issuing  her  orders  with  the  pretty  peremptoriness 
of  an  amateur  matron. 

"  No,  you  are  not  to  stir.  Captain  Dick.  I  can  do  every- 
thing myself  and  prefer  it.  Just  keep  still,  and  do  as  you 
are  told.  Here  is  your  coffee — does  it  not  smell  deli- 
ciously  ?  " 

"  The  perfume  of  Araby  the  Blest — and  the  taste — words 
fail.  Consider  yourself  engaged  from  this  moment  as  head- 
cook  of  my  future  establishment." 

'*  Let  me  help  you  to  ham,  and  try  this  toast.  Is  your 
coffee  sweet  enough  ?  How  funny  it  seems,  this  gipsy  supi)er 
out  here  in  the  middle  of  the  sea,  doesn't  it  ?  " 

*'  Ah  !  very  funny  I "  Then  mentally  :  "  What  the  dickens 
keeps  Daddy  ?  " 

"  If  Dot  only  could  see  us — or  Mrs.  Charlton.  Good  gra- 
cious !  Mrs.  Charlton  would  be  shocked  out  of  her  seven 
senses." 

"  Why?     We  are  doing  no  harm." 

"  That  makes  no  difference.  It  isn't  the  things  that  are 
most  harm  that  shock  people  most,"  says  Vera,  with  uncon- 
scious knowledge  of  the  world.  "  Another  cup  of  coffee  ?  I 
knew  you  would  like  it." 

''  Never  tasted  its  like  at  the  Caf6  de  Paris."     Half-past 


■ 


-^ 


1 


A  NIGHT  AT  SHADDECK  LIGHT. 


125 


nine — he  piills  out  his  watch  surreptitiously.  ''Good  heav- 
ens !  will  that  half-witted  clown  never  come  !" 

"By  the  way,"  he  says,  "and  apropos  of  nothing — Dot 
knows  where  you  are,  of  course  ?" 

"  Yes— no— I  don't  believe  she  does.  I  didn't  tell  her. 
I  didn't  know  I  was  coming.  She  told  me  about  your  acci- 
dent,  and  I  forgot  everything  but  that,  and  ran  off.  Have 
another  piece  of  toast  ?  Is  not  Daddy  very  long  about  com- 
ing  ?  " 

"  I  should  think  so,"  replies  Captain  Dick,  with  an  ill-re- 
pressed groan.  He  is  growing  seriously  uneasy.  More  than 
once  it  has  happened  to  Daddy  to  be  belated  and  kept  in  St. 
Ann's  all  night — what  if  this  be  one  of  the  nights  !  The  tide 
is  making  too  rapidly  now  for  her  to  think  of  crossing  to  the 
main  land,  and  if  Daddy  does  not  bring  a  boat 

"Any  more  ham?  No?  Well,  this  is  a  promiscuous 
picnic ;  I  shall  never  forget  it.  Now,  I  will  clean  off  the 
things,  and  then  there  will  be  nothing  to  do  but  sit  down  and 
wait  for  Daddy  and  the  boat." 

"Nothing  to  do!  Good  Heavens!"  Captain  Ffrench 
says  to  himself  again,  in  direst  dismay. 

It  is  close  upon  ten  now,  and  still  only  the  wash  of  the  surf 
on  the  rocks  breaks  the  dread  silence  of  night  and  ocean. 
The  rising  moon  streams  in  and  fills  the  little  room,  for  his 
cook-elect  has  taken  the  lamp  to  the  kitchen.  He  goes  to 
the  window  and  looks  out. 

"  Sister  Anne,  Sister  Aftne,  do  you  see  anybody  coming  ?  " 
cries  Vera,  gayly.  Her  work  is  done,  and  waiting  is  begun. 
"  Water,  water,  everywhere,  but  no  Daddy  visible.  Captain 
Dick,  what  if  he  doesn't  come  at  all  ?  " 

"  By  Jove  1 "  he  says,  and  looks  at  her  so  blankly  that  she 
breaks  into  a  laugh. 

"  Would  it  not  be  awful  ?  And  Mrs.  Charlton's  face  when 
I  go  back  !  No—it  is  too  fearful  to  think  of !  "  She  laughs 
again— Vera's  sweet,  joyous  laugh,  no  thought  of  the  real 


126 


A  NIGHT  AT  SHADDECK  LIGHT. 


awkwardness,  the  serious  contretemps,  breaking  on  her  mind. 
"  Captain  Dick,  you  should  have  let  me  walk  home." 

"  Jiut  I  thougiit  Daddy  would  come — 1  made  sure  Daddy 
would  come  !  "  he  murmurs,  helplessly.  He  goes  back  to 
his  couch,  and  pulls  his  long  mustache  in  dire  perplexity. 
"Confound  Daddy! — yea,  trebly  hang  and  confound  him! 
What  can  keep  the  great  softy  ?     If  the  child  has  to  stay 

all  night "      He  looks  at  her  sitting  there  with  all  a  child's 

unconsciousness  in  her  fLice.  "Jt  will  be  the  deuce  of  a 
scrape  !  And  what  will  they  say  at  Charlton  ?  What  will 
Eleanor  say  ? — and  her  awful  mother  ? — and  the  governor  ? 
and  Dora  ?  " 

Vera  is  singing  softly  to  herself.  The  stars  are  shining 
down  on  the  sleeping  sea  ;  the  moon  is  pouring  its  white, 
lonesome  light  over  everything ;  nothing  but  the  world  of 
waters  around  them — Adam  and  Eve  in  Eden  were  never 
more  alone. 

"  The  night  has  a  thousand  eyes," 


sings  Vera,  her  head  thrown  back,  her  upraised  eyes  fixed  on 
the  glittering  sky — 

**The  day  but  one, 
Yet  the  light  of  the  bright  world  dies 
With  the  dying  sun. 

**  The  mind  has  a  thousand  eyes, 

The  heart  but  one  ; 
Yet  the  light  of  a  whole  life  dies 

When  day  is  done." 

Half-past  ten  I  With  the  moonlight  full  on  her  face,  she 
sits  in  the  old  arm-chair,  the  sea-wmd  lifting  her  short  curls, 
drinking  in  the  solemn  loveliness  of  the  night.  There  is  si- 
lence. He  lies  gnawing  his  mustache,  vexed,  puzzled,  pow- 
erless to  help  himself.     Hovv  anxious  they  will  be  at  Charl- 


I 


A   NIGHT  AT  SHADDECK  LIGHT. 


127 


ton.  How  unconcerned  she  seems  ;  singing,  too,  by  George  ! 
He  is  half  inclined  to  resent  that  ignorance  of  innocence. 
But,  after  all,  what  cannot  be  cured  must  be  endured— care 
killed  a  cat— it  is  really  no  fault  of  his;  she  is  only  a  little 
girl,  and — eleven  ! 

The  night  is  so  still;  what  wind  there  is,  is  blowing 
towards  them,  and  the  clock  of  St.  Ann's  Town  Hall  has  a 
loud  bass  voice.  Eleven  !  Still  silence.  Vera's  song  has 
died  out,  Captain  Ffrench  has  given  up  rhe  forlorn  hope  at 
last. 

"  ^He  Cometh  not,'  she  said,"  quotes  Vera,  in  tones  of 
subdued  tragedy. 

"  I— I'm  afraid  not.  I'm  awfully  sorry,  little  Vera. 
What  must  you  think  of  me  ?  It  is  all  my  fault— you  could 
have  walked.     I  never  imagined  it  would  end  like  this." 

The  intense  vexation  of  his  tone  is  not  to  be  concealed. 
She  looks  at  him  in  surprise.  Of  what  he  is  thinking— of 
the  way  the  predicament  may  affect  her— she  never  dreams. 
"  But,  after  all,  there  is  no  great  harm  done.  I  am  safe, 
and  it  is  better  for  me  to  be  here  than  that  you  should  be 
left  alone.  Dot  will  guess  where  I  am,  and  the  rest  will  not 
care.  I  suppose  the  tide  will  go  out  again  early  in  the  morn- 
ing,  and  then  I  can  walk  ashore." 

There  is  no  more  to  be  said.  He  accepts  the  situation 
as  It  IS  his  custom  to  accept  the  inevitable,  and  throws  off  all 
care  for  the  morrow.  To-night  his  duty  is  to  make  his 
guest  as  comfortable  as  may  be,  to-morrow  must  take  care 
of  itself.  Her  sister  will  understand,  and  as  Vera  herself 
says,  it  is  no  one  else's  business.  No  one  need  ever  know 
—she  can  cross  about  seven  in  the  morning,  and  be  home  in 
tiine  for  breakfast.  So  Captain  Dick  cheers  up,  throws  off 
worry,  and  becomes  hospitably  solicitous  about  her  ni^-ht's 
rest.  "^ 

'■You  cannot  sit  there  until  morning,  you  know,"he  says. 
"  Daddy  has  a  roost  under  the  eaves.     1  will  mount,   and 


128 


A  NIGHT  AT  SIIADDECIC  LIGHT. 


l  I 


you  must  try  and  make  yourself  as  comfortable  as  may  be 
down  here.  You  need  fear  no  burglars,  and  sea-pirates 
don't  tish  in  Siiaddeck  Hay.  After  all,  it  will  not  be  half  a 
bad  adventure  to  look  back  on,  in  the  monotony  of  the 
TraftcMi  school -room.  Don't  get  nervous  ;  don't  let  the 
sound  of  the  sea  frighten  you.  Remember  there  will  be  a 
sweet  little  cherub  up  aloft  ready  to  fly  down  at  the  faintest 
call.  And  now,  as  it  is  high  time  you  were  sound,  I  will  as- 
cend.    Good-night  and  pleasant  dreams,  little  Vera." 

Vera  i)rotests — he  will  hurt  his  shoulder.  She  is  very 
comfortable,  thank  you,  in  this  chair.  She  will  go  up  under 
the  Mansard  instead.  In  vain — on  this  point  he  is  inflexi- 
ble, and  goes  while  she  is  politely  persisting.  No  need  of 
shooting  bolts  or  burglars,  of  locking  doors,  or  barring  case- 
ments at  Shaddeck  Light.  He  is  gone,  and  Vera  and  the 
moonlight  are  alone. 

Alone  !  How  lonely  it  is — she  has  never  realized  fully 
what  the  word  meant  before.  How  awe-inspiring  in  its  sol- 
emn, sighing  mystery,  that  sleeping  sea,  how  desolate  the 
eternal  wash  of  the  slow  breaking  surf,  how  mournful  the 
echo  of  the  night  wind  1  Now  and  then  there  is  the  disso- 
nant scream  of  a  gull — nothing  else  of  life  to  break  upon  the 
voices  of  the  night.  Moonlight  and  water,  water  and  moon- 
light— their  dot  of  an  island,  their  speck  of  a  house  !  St. 
Ann's,  a  long,  dark  line  of  coast,  with  here  and  there  a  glim- 
mering light,  and  she  alone  in  all  the  world,  as  it  seems, 
alone  as  Peter  Wilkins  on  his  desert  island,  before  the  ad- 
vent of  his  wonderful  flying  wife.  But  there  is  that  '*  sweet 
little  cherub  "  up  aloft — the  thought  of  him  brings  comfort 
and  companionship.  How  very  awful  to  be  here  quite 
alone,  no  Captain  Dick  upstairs.  She  can  hear  him  mov- 
ing about,  and  there  is  protection  and  cheeriness  in  every 
creak  of  his  boots.  She  feels  no  inclination  for  sleep,  she  is 
abnormally  wide-awake — that  mighty  sweep  of  sea  and  sky, 
that  golden,  crystal  globe  up  there,  all  these  yellow  clusters 


f 


A  NIGHT  AT  SHADDECK  LIGHT. 


129 


of  stars,  absorb  her.  It  is  such  a  night  as  she  will  never 
spend  again,  a  night  to  be  niaiked  by  a  red  stone  in  her  life. 
She  hopes  Dot  is  not  uneasy,  but  Dot  will  guess  how  it  is. 
So  she  sits,  and  softly  sings  to  herself,  and  the  low,  crooning 
lullaby  steals  up  to  the  man  overhead,  and  touches  all  that 
is  chivalrous  and  tender  in  his  heart. 

"  Dear  little  soul  !  "  he  thinks,  "  dear  little,  innocent, 
warm  hearted  Vera  I  How  much  younger  she  is  than  most 
girls  of  her  age — how  true  and  clear  she  sings  !  What  a 
noble,  loving,  generous  woman  she  will  make  in  five  or  six 
years.  And  how  little  is  the  fear  of  Mrs.  Grundy  before  her 
eyes  I  What  will  Eleanor— what  will  Mrs.  Charlton  think 
and  say  of  this  escai)ade  ?  " 

Miss  Charlton's  refusal  has  not  altogether,  it  will  be  per- 
ceived, broken  the  heart  of  Captain  Ffrench.  He  feels 
considerably  better,  indeed,  than  before  the  ordeal — it  is  not 
certainty,  but  suspense  that  kills — Eleanor,  conjugal  bliss — ■ 
Charlton  vs.  Englehart  and  the  rest  of  these  bo7i  canianuics — 
new  discoveries,  botanical  and  mineral,  in  Honduras — the 
die  is  cast  between— it  is  to  be  the  latter,  and  in  his  secret 
heart  he  rejoices. 

Twelve  by  the  clock  of  St.  Ann's.  Vera  is  still  by  the 
window,  but  her  croon  has  ceased,  she  is  growing  sleepy, 
and  a  trifle  chilly.  After  all,  a  person  might  as  well  have  a 
sleep— moonlight  and  sea  effects  will  keep.  So,  yawning 
very  much,  she  taker,  her  place  on  the  lounge,  and  in  five 
minutes  is  fast  as  a  church. 

Morning  !  She  opens  her  eyes,  as  the  first  eastern  beam 
shoots  pink  and  golden  into  the  little  room.  The  window 
stands  wide  open  and  by  it,  smoking  placidly,  sits  Captain 
Dick. 

"  Is  it  to-morrow  ?  "  she  asks,  rising  on  her  elbow,  "  it 
does  not  seem  half  an  hour  since  I  lay  down.  Has  Daddy 
come  ?  " 

"  Good-morning,   Doila  Martinez.      No,    Daddy  is  still 


130 


A   NIGHT  AT  SIIADDECK  LIGHT. 


J    \ 


II: 


among  the  missing.  How  late  did  you  sit  up  last  night  ? 
Far  into  my  beauty  sleep,  1  heard  a  still  small  voice  chant- 
ing, 'We  won't  go  home  till  morning.'  " 

"  You  heard  nothing  of  the  sort.  How  is  the  tide  ?  on  the 
ebb  or  How  ?     Can  1  walk  ashore  ?  " 

"  Here  is  some  one  !  "  cries  Captain  Ffrench.  On  the 
instant  a  boat  sweei)s  round  the  curve  of  the  island  and  runs 
sharply  up  on  the  sand. 

*'  Daddy  at  last,"  says  Vera,  with  a  yawn.  "  I  shall  not 
have  to  walk  after  all." 

"  That  is  not  Daddy's  step,"  Daddy's  master  says,  quickly. 
"There  is  more  than  one." 

The  footsteps  draw  nearer,  the  door  opens,  and  four  per- 
sons enter  the  room.  Dora  l.ightwood,  pale  and  breathless, 
Mrs.  Charlton,  austere  and  grim,  Mr.  Charlton,  hobbling 
with  a  stick,  a  dark  frown  on  his  furrowed  face,  and  the 
boatman  last  of  all. 

"  Vera  !  "  Dora  cries,  and  rushes  forward,  and  falls  on 
her  sister's  neck,  and  lifts  uj)  her  voice  and  weeps. 

The  rest  stand  still — a  dread  trio.  Captain  Dick  rises 
and  removes  his  pipe,  a  crushing  sense  of  iniquity  upon  him 
as  he  meets  Mrs.  Charlton's  gorgon  gaze.  Then  there  is 
silence.  And  until  the  last  day  of  his  life  that  scene  is  before 
Dick  Ffrench — his  little  den  all  jubilant  with  the  morning 
sunshine.  Dora's  suppressed  sobbing,  Mrs.  Charlton's  stony 
glare,  and  the  dark  frown  in  his  step-father's  face.  It  never 
fades.  But  most  of  all,  he  sees  little  Vera,  instinctively 
withdrawing  from  her  sister,  and  with  a  brave,  bright,  loyal 
smile,  taking  her  stand  by  his  side.  The  image  of  Vera  as 
she  stood  there  will  be  with  him  his  whole  life-long. 


'%' 


f 


A  MORNING  AT  SHAD  DECK  LIGHT,  I31 


on 


1 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

A  MORNING  AT  SHADDECK  LIGHT. 

I'-RA  is  the  first  to  speak. 

"It  is  not  Captain  Dick's  fault,"  she  exclaims, 
eagerly.  «'  Dora— and  all  of  you  !  it  is  not  Cap- 
tain Ffrench's  fliiilt.  It  is  Daddy's.  lie  never  came  from 
St.  Ann's  all  last  night,  and  so  I  had  to  stay." 

A  sort  of  smothered  groan  breaks  from  Mrs.  Charlton.  It 
says  plainer  than  words,  "  Worse  and  worse  !  Not  even 
Daddy  to  act  as  cha[)eron." 

"And  it  stormed  so,  I  was  frightened  nearly  to  death,  and 
then  when  that  was  over  the  tide  rose,  and  I  couldn't  walk 
—or  swim.  And  there  was  no  boat.  And  Captain  Dick 
had  his  shoulder  hurt,  and  couldn't  manage  one  if  there  was. 
And  I  tell  you  Daddy  never  came.  Dot,  whv  don't  you  say 
something?"  cries  Vera,  stamping  her  football  breathless 
and  flushed  in  her  defence.  "  What  do  you  stand  looking 
like  that  for?  1  didn't  think  you  would  be  uneasy.  I 
thought  you  were  sure  to  know.  What  is  the  matter  with 
you  all?  It  was  nobody's  fault— nobody  could  help  my 
staying  here  last  night." 

No  one  speaks.  The  silence  is  beyond  all  telling,  tremen- 
dous. Richard  Ffrench  has  ridden  down  on  the  bayonets 
ot  the  enemy  to  red  death  many  a  time,  has  faced  starvation 
more  than  once  last  year  on  the  pale  frozen  deep,  has  stood 
face  to  face  with  mortal  peril  many  a  time  and  oft,  but  never 
—no  never -has  he  felt  such  blank  consternation  as  posses- 
ses  him  now!  Conscience  makes  cowards  of  us  all.  He 
has  been  held  a  brave  soldier,  a  reckless  boatman,  a  fearless 
explorer,  a  daring  hunter,  but  at  this  moment  he  is  horribly 


132 


A  MORNING  AT  SHAD  DECK  LIGHT, 


^ 


[;  'B  I  ' 


afraid  of  Mrs.  Charlton.  And  Mrs.  Charlton's  ••glittering 
eye  "  is  upon  him,  and  holds  him  as  that  other  thcad  optic 
held  the  trembhng  wedding  guest. 

Vera  comes  a  hllle  nearer,  draws  quite  away  from  Dora,  anil 
stands  close  by  his  side,  her  ilark  face  Hushing  angrily. 

•'Captain  Dick  is  not  to  blame,"  she  repeats  proudly; 
"he  never  sent  for  nie,  he  never  wanted  me  to  come.  Hut 
I  am  glad  I  came — yes  glad  I  "  says  Vera,  Hinging  back  her 
head  defiantly,  •' for  if  I  had  not  he  would  have  been  alone 
here  witii  his  disabled  arm.  None  o{  you  cared!  Not  that 
he  wanted  anything,  but  if  he  had  it  would  have  been  all  the 
same.  Daddy  went  to  the  druggist's,  and  never  came  back. 
And  now,  if  you  are  ready,"  says  Vera  jiicking  u[)  her  hat, 
and  flashing  defiance  on  the  company,  "  /  am.  (Jood-by, 
Captain  Dick." 

**  Not  good-by  just  yet  Vera,  only  good-morning,"  he 
answered,  and  with  a  smile  takes  the  hand  she  offers  in  his 
strong  clasp.  His  eyes  praise  and  thank  her,  but  his  lips 
oidy  smile.  She  knows  nothing,  except  that  they  are  all 
angry  with  her  for  staying  from  home  last  night,  and  want  to 
throw  the  blame  on  him.  She  turns  to  the  door,  no  one 
tries  to  stop  her,  on  the  contrary,  Dora  desires  the  greedily 
listening  boatman  to  go  as  well. 

"  Take  her  to  the  boat,"  she  says,  "  and  wait  till  we 
come." 

They  depart  and  the  house  door  closes  behind  them. 
Then  Dora  rises  in  her  outraged  sisterhood,  and  faces  the 
enemy.  To  the  frivolous  mind  it  looks  like  a  little  barn- 
yard bantam  ruffling  its  white  feathers,  and  challenging  to 
mortal  combat  a  big  Newfoundland.  But  there  are  no  frivo- 
lous minds  present,  and  Captain  Dick  feels  hi?  hour  has 
come  !  She  is  pale,  and  her  cold  blue  eyes  have  a  strange 
dry  glitter,  that  really  looks  as  much  like  triumph  as  anger. 

"  And  now,  Captain  Ffrench,"  she  begins,  *'  what  have 
you  to  say  ?  " 


I 


! 


1 


A  MORNIIVG  AT  SllADDECK  LIGHT. 


133 


ily 


■» 


4 


*'  Nothing  whatever,"  retorts  that  culprit,  promptly. 
"  Vera  has  told  you  all  about  it,  I  aiu  very  sorry  if  her 
absence  causi;il  you  anxiety  last  night  ;  but  I  presume  the 
storm  extended  as  far  as  Charlton.  As  she  says,  it  could 
not  be  helped." 

'*  You  have  no  more  to  say  than  this  ?  " 

"  Not  that  I  know  of.  1  am  very  sorry.  I  am  not  aware 
that  there  is  anytiiing  more  to  be  said." 

Miss  Lightwood  turns  from  him  to  the  others,  as  if  saying: 
"  You  hear  !  He  adds  to  the  atrocity  of  his  conduct  cold- 
blooded indifference.  And  1  am  a  poor  little  unprotected 
creature,  unable  to  help  myself." 

"  You  must  be  aware,  sir,"  says  Mr.  Charlton,  coming  to 
the  rescue,  his  voice  harsh  with  irritating  i)ain,  ''  that  this  is 
an  abominable  aftair — that  people  will  talk — that — that  it's 
an  outrageous  affair — that  I  wouldn't  have  had  it  happen  for 
a  thousand  pounds — that — that  there  will  be  a  devil  of  a 
scandal — that — that,  in  short,  sir,  you  ought  to  be  ashamed 
of  yourself." 

He  strikes  his  stick  angrily  on  the  ground,  feeling  that 
there  is  more  stumbling  in  his  elociuence  than  is  needful,  and 
thinking  how  little  like  the  prisoner  at  the  bar  his  boy  looks, 
standing  erect  there,  his  head  held  well  up,  his  dark  face  a 
little  pale,  his  frank,  honest,  fearless  eyes  meeting  theirs  un- 
flinchingly. For  13ick,  a  very  craven  in  his  secret  soul,  be- 
fore his  accusing  angels,  has  a  dogged  instinct  that  he  means 
to  die  game,  outwardly  at  least. 

"Vera  Martinez  is  blighted  for  life,"  says  Mrs.  Charlton, 
opening  her  sealed  lips,  and  speaking  in  a  deep,  strong,  slow, 
rasping,  ominous  monotone. 

"  iMadam  ! "  says  Dick  Ffrench,  savagely,  swinging  round, 
his  face  flushing  red. 

•' Blighted  for  life!"  repeats  Mrs.  Charlton,  waving  him 
contemptuously  down — "  irretrievably  blighted  !  She  must 
live  under  a  cloud  all  the  rest  of  her  days.     It  would  have 


i   -I' 


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h  -f  ^; 


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m  ifei  ^ 


134 


A  MORNING  AT  SHAD  DECK  LIGHT. 


been  better  for  her  if  you  had  turned  her  out  in  the  storm  to 
perish,  than  have  kept  her  here.  Last  night  will  be  fatal  for- 
ever to  the  reputation  of  this  most  unhappy  young  girl." 

She  waves  her  hand  again  ;  her  tone  is  deep  and  Siddons- 
like  ;  it  freezes  the  very  marrow  of  this  hapless  young 
man's  bones.  Her  gesture  is  tragic — indeed,  she  looks  un- 
commonly like  the  tragic  muse  altogether,  grown  elderly  and 
stout.  Her  stony  stare  is  a  blood-freezing  thing  to  meet. 
Her  words  go  through  him  one  by  one  like  bullets.  Dora 
stands  pallid,  mournful,  despairing — life  evidently  holds  noth- 
ing more  for  her. 

Mr.  Charlton  is  near  her,  gloomy,  silent,  frowning.  He 
and  Dot  are  the  gentlemen  of  the  jury,  Mrs.  Charlton  is  the 
ji'dge.  The  black  cap  is  ready  ;  he  has  been  tried  by  his  peers 
and  found  guilty.  If  he  has  anything  to  say  why  the  sen- 
tence of  the  law  should  not  be  pronounced,  now  is  the  time  I 
It  is  the  supreme  hour  of  his  life.  And  he  stands,  tall, 
square-shouldered,  upright,  looking  from  one  to  the  other, 
the  wretched  prisoner  in  the  dock,  reading  no  hope  of  mercy 
in  either  Rhadamanthus  face. 

"  Look  here  !  "  he  bursts  out  at  last,  "  this  is  all  con- 
founded rubbish,  you  know.  Blighted  !  Under  a  cloud  ! 
Sent  adrift  to  perish  !  By  George !  You  use  forcible 
English,  Mrs.  Charlton  I  I  tell  you,  governor,  I  tell  you. 
Miss  Lightwood,  I  tell  you,  madam,  I  am  not  to  blame.  It 
was  simply  an  impossible  thing  for  Vera  to  go  home  last 
night.  As  to  sending  her  out  to  perishj  that  is  all  bosh,  of 
course." 

*'  I  have  no  more  to  say,"  says  Mrs.  Charlton,  folding  her 
hands,  and  turning  austerely  away.  "  It  is  no  business  of 
mine.  My  daughter  knows  nothing  of  it,  and  shall  not.  It 
is  a  very  delicate  and  disagreeable  subject.  I  wash  my  hands 
of  the  whole  matter.  If  the  young  person  herself  is  satisfied," 
with  a  short,  file-like  laugh,  '•'■we  may  be,  I  think." 

*'  She  is  such  a  child — such  a  child,"  sobs  Dora,  covering 


"Ml 


i 


< 


4 


A  MORNING  AT  SHADDECK  LIGHT.  1 35 

her  face  with  her  hands,  -  she  does  not  know.     Oh  !  why  did 
we  ever,  ever  come  !  " 

Dick  puts  his  hands  to  his  head,  feeling  that  his  senses  are 
ree hng.  What  has  he  done-what  is  he  to  do  ?  Is  it  reallv 
such  a  tremendous  affair  as  they  are  trying  to  make  out,  or- 
is all  this  a  new  version  of  Much  Ado  About  Nothing  ?  He 
IS  not  versed  in  the  nicer  gradations,  the  subtler  shades  of 
feniuime  propriety,  as  rigidly  required  by  Mrs.  Grundy-he 
only  knows  that  he  wishes  an  earthquake  would  split  Shad- 
deck  Light  in  two  and  swallow  him  bodily.     It  would  be  less 

ternhc   than  Dora's   sobs,  or  Mrs.   Charlton's  death's-head 
stare. 

"  What  do  you  want  me  to  do  ?  "  he  demands,  turning  at 
bay  upon  his  tormentors  at  last. 

^  "  I  ?  "  She  laughs  another  short,  rasping  laugh.  '*  Noth- 
ing whatever.  It  is  nothing  to  me.  Vera  Martinez's  dis- 
grace  does  not  touch " 

"  Disgrace  !  "  cries  Richard  Ffrench,  with  sudden  fierce- 
ness,  facing  her. 

"  There  is  no  other  word  for  it  that  I  know  of-no  other 
the  world  will  call  it  by." 

"The  world  be " 

"No  !  "  says  Mrs.  Charlton,  lifting  her  arm  -that  I  will 
not  endure.  Sw'earing  or  passion  never  mended  a  shat- 
tered  reputation  yet.  I  permit  no  man  to  blaspheme  in  my 
presence."  ^ 

"  You  mean  to  say . " 

"1  mean  to  say  that  I  have  no  more  to  say.     You  are 

neither  so  Ignorant,  nor  so  innocent  as  you  pretend.  You  are 
a  man  of  the  world.  Captain  Ffrench,  and  do  not  need  me 
to  tell  you  what  construction  the  world-when  it  knows  it- 
will  put  upon  Miss  Vera's-ahem-eccentricity  of  last  night 
It  IS  a  -ery  painful  and  embarrassing  subject-I  really  must 
decline  to  discuss  it  now  or  at  any  other  time." 

"But,  by  Heaven!  xi  shall  be  discussed,"  exclaims  Cap. 


136 


A  MORNING  AT  SHADDECK  LIGHT. 


f\  '  i 


■f ,:, 


tain  Ffrench,  fairly  enraged.  "  You  come  here,  and  blacken 
that  child's  character,  and  then  tell  me  you  will  not  discuss 
the  subject " 

"/  blacken  her  character!  You  forget  yourself,  Captain 
Ffrench  !  Mr.  Charlton,  I  nnist  insist  upon  going.  I  never 
permit  myself  to  be  insulted  twice." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  !  "  Dick  says,  hastily,  and  with  a  sud- 
den total  change  of  tone.  "  I  have  no  right  to  lose  my  tem- 
per.     If  you  and  Miss  liightwood,  governor,  will  leave  us  for 

a  few  minutes  I  would  like  to — to "  he  is  at  a  dead-lock, 

and  the  sentence  is  not  finished. 

Dora's  tears  upset  him  beyond  everything,  and  if  there  is 
any  grain  of  truth  in  ail  this  rhodomontade  he  would  like  to 
get  at  it.  Vera  to  suffer  through  him  !  Why  he  would  not 
have  a  hair  of  the  dear  little  thing's  head  hurt  for  a  universe. 

They  obey — Dora  indeed  wipes  her  eyes,  and  dei)aits  with 
alacrity.  He  places  a  chair  for  his  marble  guest,  and  takes 
another. 

*'  Sit  down,"  he  says,  briefly  ;  "  let  us  get  at  the  head  and 
front  of  my  offending,  if  we  can.  In  all  innocence — in  all 
inability  to  help  myself,  it  seems  I  have  blundered.  You  tell 
me  I  did  wrong  in  keei)ing  the  little  one  last  night.  To  do 
otherwise  was  simply  impossible,  but  we  will  let  that  go. 
Keep  her  I  did.  By  so  doing  you  say  I  have  blighted  her 
good  name  for  life.  Now  there  are  but  two  sorts  of  evil  I 
take  it,  the  curable,  and  the  incurable.  To  which  does  this 
belong  ?" 

"To  the  curable,  decidedly,"  replies  Mrs.  Charlton, 
promptly.  She  sees  she  iS"  torturing  her  victim,  and  takes  a 
malignant  delight  in  his  writhing.  She  feels  as  a  cold  blood- 
ed naturalist  may  who  has  a  rare  and  precious  beetle  im- 
paled on  a  pin. 

"That  is  well.     Now  what  am  I  to  do?  " 

"Does  the  'what  am  I  to  do'  not  present  itself  unsug- 
gested,  Captain  Ffrench  ?     In  my  day  when  a  young  man 


ill 


A  MORNING  AT  SHADDECK  LIGHT.  1 3/ 

seriously  compromised  a  young  woman,  there  was  but  one 
honorable  alternative — to  marry  her  !  " 

She  brings  out  the  word  with  vicious  relish.  She  has  not 
the  faintest,  slightest,  most  shadowy  tiiought  that  he  will  en- 
tertain the  idea,  or  she  would  never  utter  it.  Has  he  not 
been  but  just  rejected  by  her  daughter— does  he  not  look 
upon  Vera  as  a  little  girl,  as  in  point  of  fact  she  is  ?  "  Pure 
cussedness  "  has  more  to  do  with  the  spiteful  suggestion  than 
any  thought  of  the  possibility  of  its  being  acted  upon. 

He  sits  quite  still,  looking  ac  her— his  hands  deep  in  his 
pockets,  after  his  usual  abstracted  fashion,  profound  gravity 
on  his  face. 

"  This  is  the  one  alternative  ?  "  he  asks. 
"  The  one  alternative,"  she  answers,  "  and  in  this  case  out 
of  the  question." 

"  Why  out  of  the  question  ?  " 

"  Why  !  "  in  imitated  surprise.  "Why  ?  Because  she  is 
too  young  ;  because  she  is  a  great  grown  up  baby  ;  because 
you  don't  care  a  pin  about  her;  because  you  are  going 
away ;  because— oh  !  this  is  nonsense  and  a  waste  of  time, 
and  I  really  must  go  ! " 

He  makes  no  attempt  to  detain  her.  He  rises,  opens  the 
door  politely,  and  escorts  her  to  the  boat.  In  it  is  seated 
Vera,  her  little  straw  hat  tilted  over  her  nose,  half  asleep  in 
the  sun.  On  the  rocks  are  seated  Mr.  Charlton  and  Dora, 
in  deep  conversation— Dora  still  looking  stricken  and 
mournful,  but  resigned.  Vera  starts  up  at  sight  of  him. 
They  are  making  a  great  fuss  about  nothmg  she  thinks,  and 
badgering  Captain  Dick  for  what  is  no  fault  of  his,  with  his 
hurt  shoulder  and  everything. 

"  Governor,"  he  says  very  quietly,  "  you  will  be  at  home 
for  the  rest  of  the  day,  I  sui)pose  ?  Some  time  this  after- 
noon I  shall  go  ashore  and  have  a  talk  with  you.  Ladies, 
good-morning." 

He  t-kes  off  his  hat  ceremoniously  to  dame  and  demci 


138 


A   MORNING   AT  SUA  DD  EC  A'  LIGHT. 


selle  ;  to  Vera  he  gives  a  parting  smile.  That  and  the  fact 
that  he  is  coming  hiter  on,  sends  her  home  hapjjy.  No  one 
scolds  her,  no  one  asks  her  questions,  the  subject  is  tacitly 
dropped.  The  worst  is  over ;  Cai)tain  Dick  has  been  hon- 
orably discharged  on  her  evidence  alone,  and  she  lifts  up 
her  voice  and  sings,  half  in  gladness,  half  in  mischievous  de- 
fiance of  grim  Mrs.  Charlton  : 

"A  fair  good  morn  to  thee  love, 

A  fair  good  morn  to  thee, 
And  pleasant  be  thy  path  love, 

Though  it  end  not  with  me." 

Her  high,  sweet  singing  comes  back  on  the  morning  wind 
to  Richard  Ffrench  where  he  stands,  and  a  smile  breaks  up 
the  dark  gravity  of  his  thoughtful  face. 


Id! 


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il  i  5' 


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i 


"  No  vows  were  ever  plighted — 

We'd  no  farewell  to  say  ; 
Gay  were  we  when  we  met  first, 

We  parted  just  as  gay. 

•'  A  fair  good  morn  to  thee  love, 

A  fair  good  morn  awhile  ; 
I  have  no  parting  signs  to  give, 

So  take  my  parting  smile  !  " 

At  all  times  it  comes  as  naturally  as  unconsciously,  almost 
as  frequently  to  Vera  to  carol  as  to  breathe.  The  last  words 
float  back  to  him,  as  the  Nixie  turns  into  her  little  cave  and 
disappears. 

"A  grown  up  baby  !  "  he  repeats.  "  Yes,  Mrs.  Charlton, 
you  are  right,  but  baby  or  no  baby  my  poor  little  Vera,  it 
seems  I  am  to  ask  vou  to  be  mv  wife." 


CAPTAIN  DICK'S    WOOmc. 


139 


CHAPTER  XV. 


CAPTAIN    dick's    VVOOLMG. 

IFTEEN  minutes  later  Daddy  appears  in  a  hang- 
dog and  apologetic  fashion,  looking  sober  and 
sorry  for  it.  He  had  been  overtaken  by  the 
storm,  It  appeared,  and  lying  down  in  a  back  kitchen  he 
knew  of,  had  fallen  asleep.  For  Daddy  to  flill  asleep  was  a 
much  easier  thing  than  to  awake  ;  the  gray  dawn  was  break- 
mg  when  he  opened  his  eyes  again  on  this  mortal  life 

Captain  Ffrench  waves  him  away.  He  might  have  apos- 
trophized  hun  as  erstwhile  Sir  Isaac  Newton  did  his  immor- 
tal  dog,  Diamond  :  "  Oh,  Daddy  !  Daddy  !  little  thou  know- 
est  the  mischief  thou  hast  done  !  "  But  the  case  is  beyond 
all  apostrophizing. 

"  Go  in  and  get  your  breakfast,"  he  says,  resi-nedly  • 
"  don't  trouble  yourself  with  excuses.  You  have  imde  the 
most  distinguished  blunder  of  your  life,  if  the  knowled<re 
will  give  an  edge  to  your  appetite."  ° 

He  is  leaning  over  the  low  wall  that  incloses  the  house, 
his  arms  folded,  and  is  preparing  to  think  it  out.     He  had 
been  annoyed  last  night  for  Vera's  sake,  had  thought  it  an 
awkward  contretemps  for  the  child  ;  but  the  light  in  which 
the  situation  has  been  presented  to  him  this  morning,  stag- 
gers him.     These  women  should  know  better  than  he,  and 
if  It  is  as  they  say,  then  reparation  must  be  made,  as  a  sim- 
ple matter  of  course.     But  is  it  ?     It  looks  absurd  to  him- 
women  have  a  fashion  of  magnifying  molehills  into  moun- 
tarns  ;  but  tor  all  that  they  may  be  very  right ;  no  one  knows 
less  than  he.     It  is  certainly   true    that   he   was    in    fault  • 
Vera  would-and  wished  to-and  could  easily  have  walked 


It  I  , 


li*   'i-^S 


i'lt. 


t\-h 


140 


CAPTAIN  DICK'S   WOOING, 


ashore  half  an  hour  after  she  came,  and  he  prevented  her. 
*'  You  have  blighted  her  whole  life !  "  The  words  came 
back  to  him  in  every  surge  of  ";he  surf,  in  a  dread  monotone. 

Can  it  be  true  ?  His  scierce  is  at  fault  here  ;  all  his  big 
books,  mathematical,  botanical,  geological,  cannot  help  him 
out  of  his  fog.  '*  Under  a  cloud  her  whole  life-long  !  " 
Mrs.  Charlton  must  have  meant  it;  she  has  no  motive  for 
saying  what  is  false.  And  Dora's  sobs,  and  his  step-father's 
frown — yes,  it  must  be  sc.  A  horrible  blunder  has  been 
made,  and  the  penalty  nuist  be  paid  by  both.  He  faces  the 
situation  as  squarely  as  he  faced  the  columns  of  the  enemy 
in  the  rattling  charges  of  his  old  trooper  days.  Vera  shall 
never  suffer  through  him  ;  if  giving  her  his  name  can  shield 
her  from  the  world's  slanders,  she  shall  have  it.  But,  poor 
child  !  what  a  shame,  what  a  desecration  of  holy  childhood 
it  seems.  Her  liking  for  him  is  so  frank,  so  open,  so  inno- 
cent, so  fearless — it  is  akin  to  sacrilege  to  turn  it  to  some- 
thing she  must  blush  for,  and  shrink  from,  and  fear  to  show. 

For  himself  it  does  not  so  much  matter,  and  yet  he  likes 
his  liberty  as  well  as  most  men,  and  matrimony,  in  the  ab- 
stract, is  a  subject  on  which  he  has  never  bestowed  much 
thought.  He  is  not  of  a  susceptible  nature  :  even  in  his 
calf-love  days  he  never  had  the  epidemic  very  badly.  Cer- 
tainly he  has  asked  Miss  Charlton  to  marry  him — he  admires 
her,  esteems  her,  for  her  beauty,  her  goodness,  her  worth. 
If  she  had  consented,  he  would  doubtless  have  settled  down 
into  a  very  admirable  married  man — as  married  men  go,  and 
made  as  humdrum  a  head  of  a  family  as  the  majority.  He 
would,  no  doubt,  have  been  happy,  too,  not  rapturously,  nor 
excitedly  blissful,  but  with  a  cool,  steady-going,  calm  con- 
tent, that  would  have  spread  out  thin,  and  lasted  better 
than  the  enthusiastic  sort  of  thing.  Hut  Miss  Charlton  has 
said  no,  and  he  is  bearing  up  under  it,  and  despair  has  not 
marked  him  for  her  own.  But  whether  or  no,  to  have  to 
marry  little  Vera !    "  By  Jove  !  "  says  Captain  Dick,  blankly, 


/ 


CAPTAIN  DTCK'S    IVOOING. 


141 


aloud.  The  thing  refuses  to  look  reasonable,  all  his  think- 
ing faculties  are  at  a  dead  lock.  "  Afarry  little  Vera  !  " 
And  then  he  huij^^hs— something  utterly  absurd  in  the  whole 
thing  strikes  his  sense  of  the  ludicrous.  It  is  the  most  de- 
licious joke —or  would  be,  if  he  were  only  a  second,  not  a 
principal.  Marry  little  Vera  !  Marry  the  Dona  Martinez  ! 
Marry  that  small  girl— only  sixteen,  by  (leorge  !  and  hardly 
twelve,  so  far  as  her  ideas  matrimonial  are  concerned ! 
What  will  Englehart  and  the  rest  of  them  say  ? 

But  his  sense  of  the  hiuiior  of  the  thing  is  not  hilarious. 
Poor  little  Vera  !  it  is  a  shame  !  And  in  years  from  now — 
six— ten— how  will  she  regard  it  ?  Will  such  a  marriage  not 
spoil  her  life  far  more  than  the  lack  of  it  ?  She  is  not  com- 
petent to  judge  for  herself;  there  are  misses  of  sixteen,  with 
all  a  woman's  maturity  of  judgment  on  the  two  great  sub- 
jects of  female  life — dress  and  husbands  ;  but  she  is  not  one 
of  them.  There  are  girls  and  girls.  Vera  will  say  yes  if  he 
asks  her,  because  she  likes  him  in  her  girlish  fashion,  and 
because  she  does  not  understand  enough  to  say  no.  His 
face  grows  grave— he  resolves  that  he  never  7vill  ask  her. 
If  her  life  is  to  be  sacrificed,  some  one  else  shall  ])revail 
upon  her  to  sacrifice  it.  Still  his  duty— if  it  be  his  duty- 
must  be  done. 

He  stands  a  long  time  there,  grave,  preoccupied,  trying 
to  see  daylight,  and  failing  lamentably.  It  is  all  a  muddle 
— and  much  thinking  only  makes  a  bad  matter  worse.  He 
gives  it  up  at  last,  and  goes  indoors  to  his  big,  dusty,  grim- 
looking  volumes.  These  are  friends,  at  least,  that  never  be- 
wilder— that  are  tried,  and  trusty,  and  true.  But  reading  is 
not  so  easy  as  he  thinks.  Vera  comes  between  him  and 
every  page  ;  Vera  with  her  wistful  face,  as  he  opened  his 
eyes,  and  saw  her  first  last  evening,  frightened,  troubled  for 
him  ;  Vera  all  bright  with  defiance  this  morning,  taking  her 
stand  by  his  side,  and  doing  battle  in  his  defence  ;  Vera 
seated  beside  him,  telling  him  her  pathetic  little  story  of 


142 


CAPTAIN  DICK'S    WOOING. 


clcatli,  and  loss,  and  weary  work.  And  he  has  done  her 
harm  !  He  feels  as  a  man  may  who  has  crijipled  for  life 
through  his  blundering  carelessness  a  little  child. 

Poor  little  Vera  !  dear  little  Vera !  Either  fate  seems 
equally  hard  for  her.  lUit  his  mind  is  made  up.  If  Vera  is 
not  old  enough,  or  wise  enough  to  decide  for  herself,  her 
sister  is  both.  Shrewd,  unscrupulous,  keen  little  woman  of 
the  world  that  she  is.  Dora  shall  be  umpire.  She  loves 
the  litde  one — surely  she  will  know  and  decide  for  the  best. 

It  is  almost  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  when  Captain 
Ffrench  is  shown  into  his  step-father's  private  study.  Mr. 
Charlton  is  ensconced  in  his  arm-chair,  lying  back  with  closed 
eyes,  and  in  a  low  rocker  near  Miss  Lightwood  sits  reading 
aloud.  And  very  charming  indeed  Miss  Lightwood  looks, 
in  the  green  twilight  of  the  shaded  room,  as  fair,  and  fresh, 
and  pink  as  a  rose.  Her  dress  is  white  Swiss,  and  crisp  as  a 
new  bank-note,  and  her  pretty  arms  and  neck  sparkle 
through  its  gauzy  clearness — her  fair  hair  is  "  done  "  in  a 
gilded  pyramid  on  the  top  of  her  head,  and  frizzed  down 
to  her  eyebrows.  She  lays  down  her  book  and  looks  up 
with  a  smile,  but  the  smile  fades  when  she  sees  the  visitor. 
She  rises,  gives  him  one  reproachful  glance,  says  something 
incoherently,  and  hurries  out  of  the  room.  Evidently  she  has 
not  got  over  it. 

"  I  am  very  sorry  to  intrude  upon  you,"  Captain  Ffrench 
says,  standing  erect,  a  certain  stitTness,  both  in  words  and 
manner.  "  I  certainly  would  not  have  done  so,  after  our 
recent  interview,  but  for  this  unfortunate  affair  of  last  night." 

"You  do  well  to  call  it  an  unfortunate  affair.  It  is  that, 
and  more,  and  sJic  is  likely  to  find  out  to  her  cost,  poor  little 
fool !  " 

"Not  if  any  action  of  mine  can  repair  the  folly.  The 
fault  of  her  staying  was  wholly  mine — thoughtlessly,  but  ab- 
solutely mine.  She  wanted  to  go  home  \  she  could  have 
gone  home,  but  I  liked  to  have  her  with  me,  and  detained 


CAPTAIN  DICK^S   IVOOmC.  143 

her  I  need  hardly  say  I  expected  to  send  her  home  with 
Daddy  after  dark.  I  failed  to  do  that,  and  the  consequence 
I  am  told  IS,  that  her  good  name  is,  or  may  be  injured  I 
don't  know  much  about  these  delicate  matters  myself— I 
have  no  wish  needlessly  to  sacrifice  my  own  future  or  hers 
to  the  prurient  scruples  of  an  old  woman-I  don't  see  my 
way  clearly  to  what  is  my  duty  in  this  matter.  When  I  do 
I  am  ready  to  do  it." 

"  You  were  told  tolerably  plainly  though,  this  morning." 
"Do  you  mean  to  say  you  believe  all   that  rot,   about 
bl.ghtmg  her  life,  and  so  on  ?     1  ask  you,  governor,  as  man 
to  man-m  plain   English,   do  you   think  I  am    bound   to 
marry  Vera  ?  " 

"  In  plain  English,  then-^^j-,  if  she  will  have  you  ^' 
There  is  a  pause.     Mr.  Charlton  looks  up  under  his  bushy 
brows.     In  his  heart  he  knows  this  advice  is  not  disinterested 
--m  his  heart  he  knows  if  his  boy  were  not  on  the  verge  of 
departure  for  years,  he  would  never  give  it.     Vera  is   well 
enough,  but  she  is  too  young  to  be  Dick's  wife.     He  wishes 
to  see  him  married  and  settled,  but  not  to  a  half-educated 
slip  of  a  girl.     But  he  too  has  argued  the  matter  out,  and  it 
stands  thus  :  If  Dick  does  not  marry  he  will  go-if  he  does 
marry  he  must-he  ought,   in   common   decency,   to  stay 
Ergo,  It  IS  better  he  should  marry.     And  then  Dora  has  been 
talking  to  him,  and  making  him  see  the  case  with  her  sharp 
httle  eyes      It  is  coming  to  this  pass,  that  Dora  can  make 
him  see  all  things  pretty  much  as  she  wishes. 

''Very  well  sir,"  says  Dick  Ffrench,  resignedly,  "that  is 
all.  I  abide  by  your  decision.  Now  I  will  leave  you  I 
trust  your  coming  out  this  morning  has  not  caused  any  re- 
lapse  r 

Mr.  Charlton  re;.lies  curtly  in  the  negative.     He  is  dying 
to  know  what  is  in  Dick's  mind,  .-hat  he  intends  to  do,  if  he 
will  really  propose  to  Vera,  and,  pending  her  growing  up 
resign   Honduras,  but  he  is  too  proud  to  ask.     Dick  mus[ 


:i 


I  1 


'i'-  i.'!i 


w  ^  I'  ! 

Ill 

!'■ ' 

|;;.i::  ■ 

I^lkii  ' 

144 


CAPTAIN  DICK'S    WOOING. 


volunteer,  he  will  never  again  broach  the  Honduras  matter. 

"Where  am  I  most  likely  to  find  Miss  Li^htwood?" 
Ffrench  asks. 

"Miss  Lii^htwood  ?     Do  you  mean  Vera?" 

**  I  mean  Miss  Lightvvood.  I  am  going  up  to  New  York 
by  the  five  o'clock  train,  and  have  a  few  words  to  say  to  her 
first." 

*'  She  is  generally  in  the  drawing-room  when  she  is  not 
here."  (ioing  to  New  York,  Mr.  Charlton  thinks.  Humph  I 
that  is  odd  too. 

Dora  is  in  the  drawing-room,  in  the  recess  of  a  bay-win- 
dow, embowered  in  flowers.  At  quite  the  other  end  of  the 
room,  Eleanor  is  at  the  piano,  playing  one  of  Schubert's 
tender,  pathetic  pieces.  He  greets  her  gravely  and  passes 
on,  and  stands  before  Dora.  What  he  has  to  say  he  can 
say  in  a  few  words — to  all  intents  and  purposes  they  are 
alone. 

"I  am  going  to  New  York  this  afternoon,"  he  begins, 
"  and  am  not  likely  to  be  down  again  more  than  once  before 
my  departure,  and  then  only  for  a  few  hours." 

She  glances  up  quickly ;  it  is  not  the  opening  she  has 
looked  for,  but  something  in  his  face  and  tone  tells  her  there 
is  more  behind. 

*'  I  do  not  forget  what  you  and  Mrs.  Charlton  said  to  me 
this  morning — that  is  not  likely.  It  has  made  all  the  impres- 
sion either  of  you  could  desire.  I  am  here  to  make  whatever 
atonement  I  can  make — whatever  it  is  my  duty  to  make.  You 
are  Vera's  sister,  friend,  monitor — older,  wiser,  better  versed 
in  the  world  than  she.  Her  welfare  must  be  near  to  your 
heart.  Decide  for  her  then.  In  this  evil,  that  I  have  in- 
advertently brought  upon  her  what  is  it  that  you  wish  me  to 
do?" 

Her  cheeks  flush  hotly.  He  stands  before  her,  erect,  so 
masterful,  so  simple,  so  earnest,  in  his  strong,  young  man- 
hood, that  he  puts  her  to  shame.    After  all,  she  is  a  woman, 


CAPTAIN  DICKS    WOOmo.  145 

l.e  a  n,an,  and  the  l,l„nt  clirecCc.s  of  the  ,|„es,i„„  ,„akes 
l>ei  >v,ncc,  and  a„n  l,.,t  all  over  her  bo.ly.  ' ,  ,,a,u  y„'  ,0 
-ry™>...er;.i»a,„,o.aU.^^^^ 

...;,•,:;';::;;  ;:;,:"'■"-'"  ^'--  ^-^y^-  ■^--t  peu„a„.,y,  a„d 

watch      I  l,ave  but  httle  time  to  spare.     This  is  a  matter  I 
cannot  poss.hly  discuss  with  Vera;  cannot  broach  to         a 
ail.     I  «ant  n,y  answer  then  from  you  " 
^    ^^;^<Mou  n,ea„  to  say  you  >vill  not  spealc  to  her  at  all  of- 

"I  mean  to  say  I  will  not  s|>eak  to  her  at  all.     Whatever 
IS  to  be  sa,d  to  the  poor  child,  you-her  sister-sha    sav  it 
From  first  to  last,  the  issue  and  its  consequence:  Irfes^ 

ant::iTei^;rmr,tr''-^'^^''''"-  ^'""--^•' 

«r.in:  ;;;":'oice!  I'n  _:,  o::tf::;ri"::r"""  "'''-•" 

nr.  ,Mi   r  1  "'^I'oiuiLbsiy  I  am  sure — mean  no- 

^L'lch  I  """  '"'  '-'"  """'•■  '>-•"•  S-™-  -"«.  Ca;S 

"  So  it  seen,.,.     Now,  how  an,  I  to  set  that  wrong  ri^ht  P  ■• 

"And  that  is .?" 

"To  shield  her  ,mh  yo.  r  „an,e-to  „,ake  her  your  wife  '• 
He  bows  h,s  head.     Eleanor  sits  with  her  back  t„  I  f 
Playn,g  very  softly,  so  as  not  to  disturb  tl        ':  ve    a    ',? 
A    trunge  sort  of  angry,  i.npatient  pain  fills  bin,  sTt  i   f 
;o  ..n,,  n,  son.  tntangible  way  to  'the  n.om^  s^rr^f 


146 


CAPTAIN  DICK'S    WOOING. 


■H    I 


■>  1 1 


u  :■  <       J 


i  i 


**  Does  she  know  ?  "  he  asks  at  length. 

"She  knows  nothing."  Dora  interrupts  quickly,  "noth- 
ing! Do  you  think  I  would  tell  her,  Captain  Ffrench  ? 
Vera  is  as  innocent  as  an  angel,  as  ignorant  as  a  baby.  No 
one  has  saiil  one  word  to  her." 

"  That  is  well.  And  now  the  matter  simplifies  itself.  I 
am  going  as  I  say — I  will  be  down  only  once  more.  You 
will  ask  your  sister  for  me,  if  she  will  do  me  the  honor  to 
become  my  wife.  Her  answer,  you,  or  slie,  or  both  can 
write.     Here  is  my  address.     If  that  answer  is  yes ." 

"  It  will  be  yes,"  says  Dora,  very  low. 

"  You  will  arrange  the  marriage  for  the  twenty-third.  On 
the  twenty-fourth  1  will  sail  with  the  expedition.  My  friend, 
Dr.  Englehart,  will  come  down  with  me  ;  and  I — if  it  is  all 
the  same  to  you  and  her — 1  should  wish  the  matter  kept  as 
private  as  may  be.  lean  de[)end  u[)on  Englehart,  and  I  think 
it  is  best  the  others  should  not  know.  It  is  a  subject  you 
see  on  which  I  should  not  relish  chaff." 

She  looks  up  at  him.  "You  will  really  go  then?"  is  on 
the  tip  of  her  tongue,  but  she  bites  it  and  bows  silently. 

"  It  shall  be  as  you  say.  If  Vera  is  to  be  wooed  and  won 
by  proxy,  I  might  as  well  be  the  ambassadress,  I  suppose. 
Please  give  me  your  New  York  address." 

He  gives  it.  And  now  a  sense  of  the  grim  humor  of  the 
thing  begins  to  dawn  on  Dora,  She  is  a  designing  little 
witch,  but  she  has  this  redeeming  point,  she  knows  a  joke 
when  she  sees  it  and  can  laugh.  A  faint  smile  ripples  about 
her  lips  now,  as  with  the  greatest  gravity  he  pencils  his  hotel, 
and  hands  it  to  her. 

"  You  will  say  to  Vera — for  me — what  you  think  best. 
On  the  twenty-third  I  will  be  here.  You  will  make  her 
understand  that  I  do  not  give  up  the  ♦expedition,  and  that  I 
may  be  absent  for  years.  Mr.  Charlton  will  of  course  give 
her  a  home  here,  until  my  return — that  I  must  exact  if  I 
marry.     You  will  mention  it  to  him." 


U.a  *■■. 


IS  on 


f 


i 


•i 


^ 


CAP'JAIN  DICK'S    llOOING, 


147 


"  Anytliing  else,  Captain  Ffrench  ?" 

"  That  is  all,  I  think.      I  will  not  see  Vera  just  novv-it  is 
bettor  1  should  not.     Afake  my  adieux  to  her.     (Jood-day 
Miss  r.ightwood."  •^' 

He  bows  and  departs.  LVra  looks  after  hhn  a  moment, 
her  bright  eyes  dancing  with  laughter. 

MVas  there  ever  such  a  great,  sunple-headed,  ridiculous 
Dick,  she  thinks.  "  /am  to  ,\o  his  courting,  am  I  ?  What 
an  artless  pair  he  and  Vera  will  make-about  five  years  old, 
each  of  them  I  " 

She  laughs  softly,  as  she  watches  him  say  good-by  to 
I'Jeanor.  ^ 

''And  what  will  Nelly  say-asking  her  one  day,  and  mar- 
rying  Vera  the  next  ?  And  her  mother  !  Ah  !  Mrs  Charl- 
ton,  you  builded  better  than  you  knew,  when  vou  took  Cap- 
tain  Dick  to  task-not  for  Vera's  sake,  but  to  gratify  your 
own  inborn  ill-nature.  And  Charlton  is  to  be  the  child's 
home  after  all  ! ' 

She  sees  the  young  man  leave  the  house,  and  go  down  the 
avenue  with  his  long  trooper's  stride.  Vera  is  nowhere 
about,  and  he  is  glad  of  it.  He  feels  he  cannot  meet  her 
just  now.  When  he  has  quite  gone,  Dora  rises  briskly,  and 
goes  up  to  her  sister's  room.  Vera  lies,  indulging  in  an 
afternoon  siesta,  induced  by  her  sentimental  vigil  of  last 
night,  all  unconscious  that  the  hour  is  past,  and  her  hero 
come  and  gone. 


148 


J/OfV  DORA  DOES  IT. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


« i 


I'  I 


.i!^..: 


HOW   DORA   DOES    IT. 

ORA  stands  a  moment  and  looks  at  her  sister,  a  half 
smile  on  her  face.  Vera  has  coiled  herself  up  like 
a  kitten,  in  her  white  cover — sleep  and  warmth 
have  flushed  her  checks — all  her. black,  short  tresses  curl  up 
damp  and  silky  around  her  forehead.  She  looks  like  the 
child  she  is,  although  tall  and  well-grown  for  her  sixteen 
years,  and  sh'  comes  ne;  ler  being  pretty,  just  now,  than 
Dora  has  ever  seen  her. 

"  Can  it  be  possible  she  is  going  to  grow  into  a  handsome 
woman  ?  "  Miss  Lightwood  thinks  ;  "  her  father  was,  I  think, 
the  handsomest  man  I  ever  saw,  and  Vera  resembles  him. 
If  she  does,  Richard  Ffrench  will  not  have  done  so  very  badly 
after  all.  He  is  fond  of  her,  too,  but  not  in  that  way — yet. 
Men  of  his  stamp  never  fall  in  love  with  girls  in  the  transi- 
tion stage — in  the  short  frock — and  bread  and-butter  epoch — 
they  require  full-grown  women.  Well !  Vera  will  be  that 
before  he  returns  from  his  silver  mining,  and  then  he  can 
woo  his  wife  at  his  leisure." 

She  takes  a  seat  by  the  window,  through  which  a  cool 
breeze  is  blowing  up  from  Shaddeck  Bay.  She  does  not 
awaken  her  sister  ;  there  is  no  hurry.  It  has  been  said 
already  that  this  girl  is  the  one  creature  on  earth  Dora 
Lightwood  loves.  To  her  mind  this  thing  she  is  about  to 
do  is  a  proof  of  that  love.  Vera  is  fond,  very  fond  of 
Richard  Ffrench  ;  she  admires  him  beyond  everything — he 
is  her  Sir  William  Wallace,  her  Sir  Folko  Montfau9on,  her 
Sir  Launcelot  all  in  one,  and  a  little  superior  to  any  of  them. 


1'.   I 


HO IV  DORA  DOES  IT. 


149 


*   I 
•'1 


What  can  conduce  more  to  her  future  happiness  than  to  be 
made  his  wife  ?     Vera  has  never  thought  of  this,  never  once, 
and  Dora  knows  it— her  fondness  and  admiration  are  in  the 
abstract.     She  would  be  perfectly  satisfied  to  see  him  married 
to  Eleanor  or  herself— all  the  same  she  would  like  to  remain 
near  him,  to  be  with  him  always.     The  girlish  fancy  which 
makes  him  her  ideal  hero  of  romance  now,  will  make  him 
the  man  she   loves  by  and  by.     Vera  is  of  the  type  whose 
destinies  are  ruled  much  more  by  their  heart  than  head— her 
love  will  make  or  mar  her  life.     Then— taking  a  more  practi- 
cal  curn— Captain  Ffrench  is  likely,  eventually,  to  be  not  only 
a  very  rich,  but   also   a  very  distinguished  man.     He   has 
talent  of  no  common  order,  he  has  unflinching  determination, 
a  dogged  resoluteness  to  succeed.      He  is  not  afraid  of  hard 
work  or  waiting.     Men  of  that  kind  are  bound,  sooner  or 
later,  to  go  up  to  the  head  of  the  class.     Afarried  to  him, 
Vera's  toiling  days  will  be  over ;  Charlton,  which  she  loves 
so  much,  will  be  her  home ;  she  will  have  nothing  to  do,  but 
grow  up  gracefully,   study  the   accomplishments,    transform 
herself  into  a  pretty  woman,  and  win  her  husband's  heart  on 
his  return.     On  the  whole,  it  is  just  as  well  he  is  going.    Vera 
is  too  young ;  she  needs  at  least  four  years  of  har'd  study 
then  a  winter  in  "  the  world  ;"  at  the  end  of  that  time  she 

will  be  fit  to  be  any  man's  wife.     For  herself but  here 

Dora  breaks  off,  and  her  musing,  half  smile  deepens.  She 
has  hei  own  dreams,  and  into  them  the  show-rooms  on 
Fourteenth  Street  enter  not.  She  may  sweep  through 
madame's  handsome  suite  occasionally,  but  it  will  not  be  Is 
forewoman.  The  waving  trees  of  Charlton  Place  cast  invit- 
mg  shadows  as  she  siis  and  looks.  These  are  pleasant 
pastures— why  go  out  from  them  to  crop  the  scanty  herba-e 
that  grows  about  the  streets  of  New  York  ?  ^ 

All  in  a  moment  Vera  awakes,  looks  blinkingly  about  her, 
rubs  her  knuckles  into  her  eyes,  and  sits  up  with  a  gape. 
"  You,  Dot  ?     Is  it  morning  ?  " 

o 


ISO 


HOW  DORA   DOES  IT. 


Mt 


\l 


Ij:      )      ! 


ViV. 


i!  ■■ 


I  i 


"  It  is  five  in  the  afternoon,"  answers  Miss  Lightwood. 
"  I  hope  you  have  had  a  long  enough  nap." 

Five  in  the  afternoon  !  Memory  comes  back  to  Vera 
with  a  bounce.  She  jumps  out  of  bed,  and  stands  the  picture 
of  consternation. 

'^  Five  !  and  Captain  Dick  said  he  would  be  here  at  three. 
Has  he  rot  come,  then  ?  " 

**  Captain  Dick  is  the  soul  of  punctuality,  my  dear,  and 
every  other  virtue.     He  has  been  and  gone." 

"  Gone  !  " 

"  Gone — gone  to  New  York.  He  bade  me  say  good-by 
for  him  to  you.     He  has  been  gone  precisely  half  an  hour." 

Vera  sits  down  on  the  side  of  the  bed,  dismay  in  every 
feature.  Tears  fill  her  eyes,  tears  of  anger,  and  reproach, 
and  keenest  disappointment.     Her  lips  quiver. 

"  Gone  !   and  you  never  called  me.     Oh,  Dot  !" 

*'  Did  you  want  to  see  him  so  badly,  then  ?  Why,  child, 
it  is  not  possible  you  are  crying  ?  Oh,  this  will  never  do  ! 
you  are  as  ignorant  as  a  Hottentot  of  all  sense  of  feminine 
decorum." 

"  I  don't  care  for  decorum,"  says  Vera,  swallowing  a  gulp, 
"and  I  do " 

"  For  Dick  Ffrench.  That  is  patent  to  the  universe.  My 
dear,  do  you  know  what  your  Captain  Dick  would  have  a 
right  to  think  if  he  saw  you  now  !  " 

"  That  I  was  awfully  sorry  he  went  away  without  saying 
good-by." 

"Worse  than  that — that  you  were  awfully  in  love  with 
him." 

If  Dora  expects  to  galvanize  Vera  into  a  sense  of  her  in- 
decorum by  this  abrupt  announcement,  she  is  mistaken.  Vera 
only  chews  the  end  of  her  handkerchief,  and  looks  a  tritle 
sulky 

"  I  don't  care  !  He  wouldn't  think  anything  of  the  kind. 
As  if  a  person  couldn't  like  a  person  without  bej»g  in  love 


HOW  DORA   DOES  IT. 


iSi 


)> 


with  him.     I  think  it  wa^  hateful  of  you,  Dot,  not  to  call  me, 
when  you  knew  I  wanted  to  see  him  so  much." 

"You  always  do  want  to  see  him  so  much,  don't  you? 
And  it  is  such  a  tremendous  time  since  you  saw  him  last !  I 
should  think,"  says  Dora,  a  smile  dawning  about  her  pretty 
mouth,  "you  and  he  could  have  talked  yourselves  completely 
out  of  every  earthly  subject  last  night." 

"We  didn't  sit  up  talking  all  night,  and  you  know  it. 
And  now  he  has  gone  to  New  York,  and  perhaps  will  not 
come  down  again  at  all." 

The  tears  are  welling  very  near  the  surface  again,  and 
tremble  in  the  voice  that  speaks. 

*'  Oh,  yes,  he  will— he  said  so  ;  he  told  me  to  tell  you  so. 
He  is  coming  down  for  a  particular  purpose,  indeed.     Vera, 
come   here — sit   down.     I   have   a   message  for  you   from 
Captain  Ffrench." 
Vera  looks  eagerly. 

"Yes,  Dot?  But  you  might  have  called  me,  I  think. 
What  is  it  ?  " 

"  You  are  very  fond  of  Captain  Dick,  are  you  not  ?  " 
"  Of  course  ! "   says  Vera,   promptly,  and  a  little  indig- 
nantly, at  being  questioned  on  such  a  self-evident  fact.     ''  I 
don't  see  how  any  one  could  help  it." 

Again  Dora  smiles,  laughs  outright  indeed.  It  is  impossi- 
ble to  help  it — the  child  is  so  overpoweringly  verdant. 

"Well— but  it  won't  do  to  say  so  to  everybody  you  know. 
You  are  sixteen.  Vera,  and  tall  enough  to  be  twenty.  You 
are  a  young  lady — not  a  child." 

"  Am  I  ?  "  doubtfully.  "  I  wish  you  wouldn't  keep  my 
dresses  up  to  my  ankles  then,  and  I  should  love  to  have  a 
crinoline.  But  the  message  !  the  message  !  Captain  Dick 
didn't  tell  you  to  tell  me  I  was  grown  up?" 

"Something  like  it.  Vera,  your  simplicity,  your  green- 
ness exceeds  all  belief.  Look  here  !  do  you  happen  to  know 
what  being  married  means  ?  " 


152 


nO^V  DORA   DOES  IT, 


■*i 


"Certainly  I  do  !  "  retorts  Vera,  indignantly  ;  "it  means 
everything  dowdy  and  stii[)id  that  ever  was  !  It  means  scold- 
ing the  \\iA\>,  and  slapping  the  children,  and  having  a  horrid 
time  getting  money  from  your  husband " 

"  Yes,  I  see  you  know,"  says  Dora,  laughing.  "  You  are 
thinking  of  Mrs.  Trafton.  But  everybody  does  not  of  neces- 
sity marry  a  rich  old  miser.  "  Some  girls,"  says  Dora,  smiling 
into  her  sister's  large,  unconscious  eyes,  "marry  tall,  good- 
looking  young  gentlemen — ex-captains  of  cavalry,  let  us  say 
— of  whom  they  are  very,  very,  very  fond,  and  they  live  in 
places  they  think  beautiful  beyond  telling,  and  are  hai)py  as 
the  day  is  long.  Vera  !  Vera  !  what  a  goose  you  are  !  don't 
you  understand  ?  Would  you  not  like  to  be  married  ?  Would 
you  not  like  to  be  married  to  Richard  Ffrench  ?  " 

Vera  sits  quite  still,  her  eyes  so  imwinkingly  fixed  upon 
her  sister,  that  she  makes  tliat  eminently  self-possessed  young 
woman  wince.  Her  color  rises  slowly,  and  deepens  and 
deepens,  but  she  looks  neither  startled  nor  shy. 

*'  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  she  says. 

"  Oh,  yes  you  do  !  You  are  fond  of  Captain  Dick.  When 
a  young  lady  is  fond  of  a  young  gentleman  she  naturally 
wishes  to  marry  him." 

"  Does  she  ?  "  says  Vera,  dubiously.  "  I  suppose  so.  It 
always  ends  that  way  in  stories.  But  I  am  not  fond  of  Cap- 
tain Ffrench  like — like  thaty 

"  No  ?     In  what  way  then  ?  " 

"I  never  thought  about  marrying,"  says  Vera,  the  red  ris- 
ing to  the  roots  of  her  hair,  "  and  you  know  it." 

"  But  he  has,"  says  Dora,  with  emphasis  :  "  he  is  not  quite 
such  a  babe  in  the  wood  as  you,  my  dear  Vera.  He  has 
thought  about  marrying,  not  only  thought  about  it,  but  spoken 
about  it." 

"  About — marrying — 7?ie?  " 

"About — marrying — you  ! '^ 

"  But  that  is  all  nonsense  ! "  cries  Vera,  amazed  and  in- 


;l    i 


now  DORA   DOES  IT. 


IS3 


in- 


dignant. "  He  must  have  been  in  fun,  you  know.  Why,  it 
IS  absurd  !  Only  a  week  or  so  ago  he  asked  Eleanor.  '  I 
wish  you  wouldn't  say  such  ridiculous  things,  Dot." 

"  Now,  Vera,  listen  here.  It  isn't  ridiculous.  Captain 
Ffrench  certainly  asked  Eleanor  to  marry  him,  but  it  was  to 
please  his  step-father,  not  himself;  he  likes  you  best.  Do 
you  think  he  took  Miss  Charlton's  refusal  very  much  to 
heart  ?  Why,  any  one  could  see  he  was  glad  of  it.  He  likes 
you  best,  and  he  wants  you  to  marry  him,  Vera." 
"  Wants  me  to  marry — jiim  !  " 

The  words  drop  from  her  slowly,  in  vast  amaze.  She  is 
trying  to  take  in  the  idea.  It  is  so  entirely  new  that  it  re- 
fuses to  be  taken  in  all  in  a  moment.  But  a  great,  slow 
light  of  gladness  is  coming  into  her  eyes,  too. 

"  Wants  you  to  many  him,"  repeats  Dora,  watching  her 
closely.  ° 

The  dark  eyes  flash  out  a  quick,  sudden  joy. 
"  Dot,  would  he  stay  at  home  ?  Would  he  stay  here  al- 
ways ?  Would  he  not  go  to  Honduras  ?  " 
^  "  Oh,  well,  I  am  not  so  sure  about  that.  He  has  prom- 
ised, you  know,  and  men  like  to  keep  their  word.  But  he 
would  come  back  all  the  sooner,  and  when  he  came  back 
you  need  never  be  se])arated  from  him  more." 

Never  be  separated  from  him  more  !-never  be  separated 
from  Captain  Dick  !  There  is  rapture  in  the  thought  It 
dawns  upon  her  slowly.  Always  with  him,  rowing,  driving 
smgmg-seeing  him,  hearing  him,  becoming  acquainted  with 
his  numberless  perfections  day  after  day.  Why  the  very 
thought  is  elysian. 

"Dora,"  she  says,  in  solemn  ecstasy,  "I  should  love  to 
marry  Captain  Dick  !  " 

l^he  look  that  accompanies  this  is  too  much  for  Dora  She 
leans  back  in  her  chair  and  laughs  until  the  tears  stand  in 
her  eyes. 

"  Oh,  Vera,  child,  you  will  be  the  death  of  me  yet !     Oh, 


154 


HO IV  DORA   DOES  IT. 


IM 


r 


I  i 


you   simpleton  !     You   must    never   say  such    a    thing    as 
that!" 

"  Why  not,  if  it  is  true?" 

"  liecausc — because  the  truth,  the  whole  truth,  is  not  to 
be  told  at  all  times.  It  is  too  rare  and  precious  to  be  used 
in  common  in  that  way.  Why,  it  would  turn  this  crazy  old 
world  topsy-turvy  in  no  time.  You  must  never,  never  say 
you  would  love  to  marry  any  man.     It  is  simply  awful !  " 

"  Not  even  Captain  Dick  ?" 

"  Not  even  Captain  Dick — least  of  all  Captain  Dick.  You 
must  never  let  a  man  know  you  are  so  fond  of  him  as  all 
that.     It  would  be  ruinous." 

*'  Would  it  ?  "  says  Vera,  looking  dreadfully  puzzled.  "  I 
am  afraid  I  don't  understand." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  don't.  But  you  understand  this — that 
Captain  Dick  wants  to  marry  you  ?  " 

*•  What  does  he  want  to  marry  me  for  ?  " 

There  is  something  so  irresistible  in  Vera's  gravity  as  she 
asks  these  killing  questions,  that  Dora  nearly  goes  off  again. 
But  she  restrains  herself. 

"  Because  he  is  very  fond  of  you,  of  course.  The  fondness 
is  mutual,  you  see.  Why  does  any  gentleman  ask  a  lady  to 
marry  him  ?  " 

"  To  please  his  step  father  sometimes,  it  seems.  But  that 
cannot  be  the  reason  now.  Mr.  Charlton  does  not  want 
him  to  marry  me.  Dora,  I  believe  this  is  all  some  joke  you 
have  made  up  to  tease  me." 

*'  On  my  honor  !  The  last  thing  Captain  Dick  said  to  me, 
not  an  hour  ago,  was  to  ask  you  to  be  his  wife  before  he 
started  for  Central  America." 

"  Then  he  was  playing  a  practical  joke,  and  I  must 
say " 

"  Vera,  don't  be  an  idiot !  I  tell  you  no  !  He  likes  you, 
and  wants  to  marry  you,  and  Mr.  Charlton  is  very  much 
pleased.     Why  don't  you  believe  me?  " 


HO IV  DORA   DOES  IT. 


155 


he 


"  Because  the  idea  of  anyone  wanting  to  marry  me me  ! 

Oh,  it  is  ridiculous  !  And  if  he  does,  why  didn't  you 

wake  me  up,  and  let  him  ask  me  himself?  "  says  Vera,  still 
incredulous  and  suspicious. 

"  Why  ?  Oh  !  well,  you  see  he  was  rejected  by  one  lady 
such  a  very  short  time  ago,  that  really  the  poor  fellow  has 
not  the  hardihood  to  risk  a  second  refusal.  He  spoke  to  Mr. 
Charlton  about  it  first  this  afternoon,  and  then  to  me.  You 
were  so  young,  he  sc;id,  and  he  feared  to  startle  you,  and  all 
that,  and  would  I  just  r.sk  you  for  him.  So  I  said  yes,  and 
that  is  why  he  did  not  wait  to  see  you.  He  was  in  a  hurry, 
too,  to  catch  the  five  o'clock  express.  Here  is  his  New 
York  address,  and  you  are  to  write  to  him  and  tell  him  your 
decision." 

Slowly  conviction  is  breaking  upon  Vera.  But  it  is  the 
strangest  thing— the  hardest  to  comprehend.  Captain 
Ffrench  want  to  marry  her  I  She  knows  he  likes  her,  but— 
she  is  fairly  puzzled,  troubled,  afraid  to  believe,  yet  longing 
to  do  so.  To  be  always  with  Captain  Dick— always  with  him 
at  Charlton.     What  a  heavenly  idea  ! 

"If  you  don't  beheve  me,  come  to  Mr.  Charlton,"  says 
Dora,  calmly ;  ''  he  is  not  in  the  habit  of  playing  practical 
jokes." 

But  Vera  rejects  this  idea  with  consternation.  Not  for  all 
the  world.     Is  Dora  sure  he  is  really  pleased? 

"  Charmed,"  Dora  asseverates. 

"■  And  Eleanor,  and  Mrs.  Charlton " 

"  They  do  not  know — shall  not  know  for  the  present.  The 
wedding  is  to  be  strictly  private.  That  is  Captain  Dick's  wish." 

The  wedding  !     Vera  gives  a  gasp. 

"Then — when- " 

"  Iw  about  a  fortnight,"  responds  Dora  with  composure  ; 
"  It  IS  sudden,  but  it  is  also  his  wish.  He  leaves  on  the 
twenty-fourth,  he  wishes  the  wedding  to  be  on  the  twenty, 
third.     Those  are  his  words." 


156 


I/O IV  DORA   DOES  IT. 


(Mil 


Vera  sits  silent.  Her  unusual  color  Is  gone,  and  the  dusk 
face  and  great  dark  eyes  look  wistful. 

"  It  is  so  strange — so  strange,"  she  sighs.  *'  I  don't  know 
what  to  say " 

*•  You  don't  know  what  to  say  !  "  exclaims  Dora,  aghast 
with  suri)rise,  "why  you  inexplicable  child,  I  thought  you 
would  be  delighted." 

"  Yes,   yes,  so   I   am.     I  like oh  !  I  do   like  Captain 

Dick  !  It  is  not  that.  There  is  nothing  in  the  world  1  would 
not  do  for  him.  ]>ut  it  is  so  new,  so  strange — it  frightens 
me  somehow.  To  ask  me  so  suddenly,  to  want  to  marry 
me,  and  then  to  go  away  just  the  same.  When  people  marry 
people  they  stay  at  home  with  them,  don't  they  ?  "  inquires 
Vera,  vaguely. 

"  Mostly,"  answers  Dora,  unable  to  repress  a  smile,  "  but 
this  is  an  exceptional  case.  Captain  Dick  would  naturally 
prefer  to  remain  at  home,  but  having  promised  he  is  bound 
to  perform.  You  would  not  have  him  break  his  word,  would 
you  ?  " 

"  I  would  not  have  him  do  anything  but  what  is  noble  and 
right,"  says  Vera  i)roudly,  '*  he  could  not.  If  he  wants  me 
to  marry  him,  I  will  mary  him.  If  he  wants  me  to  go  with 
him,  I  will  go.  If  he  wants  me  to  stay  here  and  wait  for  him, 
I  will  stay.     I  will  do  anything — everything — he  wishes." 

**Amost  delightful  state  of  wifely  subjection  and  duty. 
Well,  my  dear-,  it  was  a  hard  task,  but  I  have  beaten  it  into 
your  stupid  little  noddle  at  last.  Captain  Ffrench  wants  to 
marry  you  on  the  twenty-tliird  of  August,  and  the  marriage 
is  to  be  as  much  on  the  quiet  as  possible,  because  imme- 
diately after  he  is  obliged  to  leave  you.  I  was  to  tell  you 
this,  and  you  are  to  send  him  your  answer  under  your  own 
hand  and  seal.  That  is  the  case.  And  now,  I  will  leave 
you  to  digest  it  at  your  leisure,  for  you  still  look  half 
dazed." 

"And  llie  letter?" 


' »  t 


A    GIRL'S  LETTER. 


157 


"The  letter  will  keep.  To-morrow  will  do."  And  then 
she  goes,  and  Vera  is  alone.  Alone,  with  a  whole  new 
world  breaking  upon  her,  a  world  of  new  thoughts,  liopes, 
plans,  possibilities,  bliss.  Captain  Dick  wants  to  marry  her 
— wants  to  marry  her — this  king  of  men — she,  little  Vera 
Martinez,  with  the  thin  face,  and  long  arms,  and  cropi)ed 
hair,  and  brown  skin  !  Why,  it  is  wonderful  !  The  [)rince 
married  Cinderella,  to  be  sure,  but  then  the  fairy  godmother 
i.ad  been  to  the  fore  first,  and  transformed  the  grimy  little 
cinder-sifter  into  a  lovely  lady.  Ah  !  why  were  the  days  of 
fairy  godmothers  extinct  ?  Why  can  she  not  ilash  upon  the 
dazzled  vision  of  her  hero,  on  the  23d  inst.  with  a  complex- 
ion of  milk  and  roses,  floating  tresses  of  golden  sheen  (the 
lady  on  the  bottles  of  Mrs.  Allan's  Hair  Restorer,  is  before 
Vera's  mind's  eye,  as  she  thinks  this),  not  a  single  project- 
ing bone  or  knuckle  visible.  And  he  will  come  back  for  her 
in  a  little  while — has  not  Dot  said  so — and  the  iairy  tale  will 
end  as  a  fairy  tale  ought,  after  all.  "And  they  lived  happy 
forever  after." 


CHAPTER   XVII. 


A  girl's  letter. 


R.  CHARLTON  comes  down  to  dinner  to-day  for  the 
first  time  since  his  illness,  and  looks  keenly  across 
the  table  at  his  step-daughter-in-law  elect.  A 
glow  of  gladness  is  on  the  child's  face,  shining  out  as  a  light 
througli  a  transparency.  Her  great  new  happiness  is  there 
for  all  the  world  to  read.  She  blushes  as  she  catches  the  old 
gentleman's  eye— then  laughs  frankly,  and  Mr.  Charlton 
smiles  in  sympathy  with  that  gay  little  peal. 

"  She  is  too  young— too  young,  but  it  will  be  all  right  by 


158 


A    GIRL'S   LETTER. 


\m 


and  by.  If  the  lad  will  but  stay,"  he  thinks,  and  looks  with 
a  sigh  at  the  empty  place. 

After  dinner,  in  the  drawing-room,  he  goes  up  to  Vera  and 
takes  her  hand. 

"  And  this  is  my  little  daughter  ?  "  he  says. 

She  looks  at  him,  and  some  womanly  instinct  awakes,  and 
fills  her  eyes  with  tears.  She  stoops  and  kisses  the  wrinkled 
hand. 

"  Jf  you  will  let  me  be,  sir." 

"  And  Dick's  answer  is  yes  ?  " 

"It  is  yes,  a  thousand  times  over." 

"  Good  !     I  like  that.     Have  you  told  him  so  yet  ?  " 

"  You  know  I  did  not  see  him,  sir.  1  am  to  write  to- 
morrow, Dora  says." 

"Ah  !  Dora  says,"  he  smiles,  "it  will  soon  cease  to  be  as 
Dora  says.  You  are  very  fond  of  Dick,  are  you  not,  little 
Vera  ?  " 

"  Very  fond,  sir,"  Vera  says,  fearlessly  and  frankly,  and 
without  a  blush. 

"  Well,  my  dear,  God  bless  you.  You  must  grow  up  a 
good,  and  clever,  and  accomplished  woman,  so  he  may  be 
proud  of  you.  For  you  are  very  young,  my  little  girlie,  to 
be  married." 

"I  know  it,  sir.  Very  young,  very  ignorant,  very  un- 
worthy to  be  Captain  Dick's  wife." 

"  I  don't  say  that.  And  time  works  wonders.  A  girl  with 
a  head  shaped  like  this,  ought  to  have  a  brain.  Beauty  is 
very  well — indispensable  almost ;  but  brains  are  well,  too — 
the  combination  is  excellent  in  a  woman.  I  am  sure  you 
will  have  the  beauty,  I  think  you  will  have  the  brains.  And 
listen  to  me,  little  Vera — keep  Dick  at  home  when  you  get 
him." 

"  I  mean  to  try,  sir,"  Vera  answers,  half  laughing,  half 
crying,  "but,  oh  !  it  seems  so  presumptuous  to  think  of  his 
ever  giving  up  anything  to  stay  with  me." 


1/ 


i 


l^-« 


I 

.1 


A    G/Rr:S  LETTER. 


159 


J 


"  I  don't  know  about  that.  Don't  be  too  modest.  A  man 
should  stay  with  his  wife.  You  must  make  yourself  so  fasci- 
nating, so  accomjilished,  so  charming,  that  he  will  be  unable 
to  leave  you.  You  must  study  hard  and  grow  up  such  a  lady 
as  we  will  all  be  proud  of." 

"  I  will  try — oh,  indeed  I  will  try  I ''  Vera  exclaims,  clasp- 
ing her  hands. 

r'vmbition  is  stirring  within  her.  Afr.  Charlton's  praises 
h;'  ve  elated  her.  Study,  become  accomplished,  learned, 
clover — ah  !  will  she  not  ? 

That  evening  passes  like  a  dream — in  Vera's  after  life  its 
memory  is  misty  as  a  dream.  The  restlessness  that  usually 
keejis  her  Hitting  about  the  room  is  gone  ;  she  sits  quite 
still,  her  hands  clasped  behind  her  head,  a  dreamy  smile  on 
her  face,  her  little  high-heeled  shoes  crossed  one  over  the 
otlier  on  a  hassock.  Dora  is  playing  chess  with  Mr.  Charl- 
ton, as  customary  ;  Mrs.  Charlton  sits  making  tatting  ;  Elea- 
nor is  reading.  Vera  lifts  her  happy  eyes  and  looks  at  her. 
Poor  Nelly  !  she  thinks,  a  great  compassion  filling  her,  how 
much  she  has  lost.  Does  she  realize  it  ?  Surely  not,  or  she 
never  could  sit  there  with  that  quiet  face,  reading  so  steadily. 
To  refuse — deliberately  and  in  cold  blood  to  refuse  Ca[)tain 
Dick !  As  long  as  she  lives.  Vera  feels,  she  will  never  be 
able  to  understand  that  ununderstandable  wonder. 

The  steadiness  of  her  gaze  magnetizes  Miss  Charlton. 
She  looks  up  from  her  book,  smiles,  and  comes  towards 
her. 

"  How  quietly  you  sit  ;  how  happy  you  look,"  she  says. 
"  You  are  not  like  yourself  to-night.    What  is  it,  my  Vera  ?  " 

"I  am  happy,"  Vera  answers,  "happy,  happy,  happy! 
So  happy  that  1  do  not  think  anything  can  ever  give  me  a 
moment's  trouble  again.  I  am  the  very  happiest  girl  in  all 
the  world." 

"  Indeed  ?  "  Eleanor  laughs.  **  Permit  me  to  congratu- 
late you.     Is  it  indiscreet  to  ask  the  cause  ?  " 


I 

tii 


it: 


.1 


i(3o 


A    GIRL'S  LETTER. 


"  Ah  !  T  cannot  tell  you  ;  it  is  a  secret — yet — but  you  will 
know  soon." 

"  It  must  be  very  soon,  then,  for  I  am  goinr^  away  on 
Monday." 

Vera  o[)ens  iier  eyes. 

•*  On  Monday  ?     Going  away  from  Charlton  for  good  ?  " 

"  For  good.     I  hn[)e  you  are  just  a  little  sorry." 

*'  Oh,  Nelly,  sorry  !  indeed,  indeed,  yes  !  But  so  soon. 
Next  Monilay?  Oh,  you  must  not!  Mr.  Charlton  will  never 
consent." 

Kleanor  smiles  a  little  sadly. 

"  That  is  your  mistake,  my  dear  ;  Mr.  Charlton  has  con- 
sented." 

**  But  this  is  dreadfully  sudden.  Why,  we  were  all  to  stay 
until  September.  Wliat  are  you  going  so  long  before  the 
time  for  ?     Are  you  tired  of  Charlton  ?  " 

"Tired  !"  l"21eanor  answers,  and  looks  out  at  the  moon- 
light, lying  in  broad,  pale  sheets  in  the  grass.  *'  No,  little 
V<,'ra,  it  is  not  that.  I  am  going  because  1  must  go.  So  I 
am  not  to  know  this  wonderful  secret  it  seems.  And  Cap- 
tain Dick  gone,  too  !  "  smiling  down  into  the  eyes  that  droop 
suddenly,  "  and  you  and  he  such  devoted  friends  !  Did  you 
see  him  this  afternoon  ?  " 

"  No,  I  did  not  see  him,"  Vera  answers,  confusedly. 
What  would  Eleanor  say  if  she  knew  ?  How  can  she  sit 
and  speak  of  him  in  that  composed  way  when  she  has  wil- 
fully lost  him  f(M-ever  ?  Does  she  guess  it  was  only  to  [)lease 
his  step-father  he  asked  her,  and  was  she  too  proud  to  accept 
a  reluctant  lover  ?  Will  she  not  be  pained,  mortified,  hu- 
miliated, when  she  knows  the  truth?  Perhaps  it  is  just  as 
well  for  Eleanor's  own  sake  she  is  going  on  Monday.  It 
would  be  dreadful  for  her  to  be  here,  and  see  him  married  to 
somebody  else.  For  she  ;;///j-/ regret  him.  It  is  out  of  the 
order  of  things  for  her  to  help  it,  and  this  seeming  serenity  is 
but  the  fair  outside  that  covers  a  blighted  heart.     Something 


A    GIRL'S  LETTER. 


l6l 


like  this  goes  through  Vora's  sentimental  little  head  in  the 
paiue  that  ensues.  Yes,  on  the  whole,  althou^jh  she  will 
miss  and  regret  Nelly,  it  is  as  well. 

"  I  hce  I  am  to  pine  in  ignorance,"  says  Afiss  Charlton. 
"  Well,  I  shall  take  away  a  picture  of  a  radiant  face  at  least, 
aiul,  two  blissful  black  eyes.  Mow  beautiful  Charlton  looks 
tonight.     1  wonder  if  I  shall  ever  see  i     igain?" 

"Indeed  you  shall  I ''  cries  Vera,  with  emphasis;  "often 
and  often !  I  mean,"  as  Eleanor  looks  at  her  in  surprise, 
"  that  l\lr.  Charlton  will  invite  you  again  next  summer, 
and " 

"Mr.  Charlton  will  not  invite  me  next  summer,  my  dear, 
and  I  have  a  tolerably  strong  conviction  that  I  am  looking 
my  last  on  its  green  beauty.  Well  !  it  is  the  inevitable,  and 
at  least  I  am  the  better  for  having  been  here.  Come  and 
sing  for  me  ;  I  like  that  fresh  skylark  voice  of  yours.  I  will 
play.  Do  you  know,  Vera,  you  have  a  very  fine  voice — so 
fine,  that,  projjcrly  cultivated,  you  might  leave  off  teaching, 
and  distinguish  yourself  on  the  lyric  stage." 

"  I  don't  want  to  distinguish  myself — in  that  way,"  Vera 
answers,  thinking  how  differently  the  bolls  of  ''fe  are  break- 
ing for  her  ;  "but,  all  the  same,  it  shall  be  cultivated,  and  I 
am  glad,  very  glad,  it  is  fine." 

Again  Eleanor  looks  at  her  in  surprise.  She  does  not  un- 
derstand the  girl  this  evening.  What  is  this  new  happiness 
that  has  come  to  her?  Has  Mr.  Charlton  offered  to  adopt, 
educate,  and  keep  her  with  him  here  always?  And  is  Dora 
to  stay,  too,  as  prime  minister  of  the  household  ?  It  looks 
like  it,  and  seems  reasonable.  He  likes  brightness,  and 
gayety,  and  youth,  and  pretty  looks,  and  he  is  wealthy  enough 
to  indulge  in  more  unreasonable  whims.  Of  the  dark  doings 
cf  last  night  she  knows  nothing.  Her  mother  is  still  in  a 
state  of  the  blackest,  silentest  sulks  ;  no  one  else  is  likely  to 
inform  her.  So  she  settles  it  in  her  own  mind  that  this  is  the 
solution,  as  she  strikes  the  first  chord  of  her  accompaniment. 


I 


I! 


l62 


A    GIRL'S  LETTER. 


I!    :! 


ill   :ii 


For  a  long  time  that  night  Vera  lies  awake,  thinking  of 
her  new  felicity  and  of  her  letter.  What  is  she  to  say  to 
Cajitain  Dick  ?  She  knows  nothing  of  the  forms  that  obtain 
in  love-letters,  and  her  reading,  copious,  light,  and  romantic 
as  it  has  been,  gives  her  very  little  data  to  go  ui)on.  Sir 
r'olko  is  a  married  man  when  the  admiring  reader  is  first  in- 
trochiced  to  him,  consequently  has  no  need  to  indite  tender 
epistles.  Ivanhoe  never  corresponded  with  either  P.ebecca 
or  Rowena,  so  far  as  Vera  can  remember — very  probably  did 
not  know  how  to  write  indeed  ;  and  the  Corsair,  in  all  his 
piratical  meanderings,  never  so  much  as  sent  a  single  postal- 
card  to  the  drooping  Medora !  An  it  chances.  Vera  has 
written  but  two  letters  in  her  life,  and  these  of  the  briefest', 
to  the  Miss  Scudder  of  her  story.  She  has  a  melancholy 
consciousness  that  she  does  not  shine  on  paper,  that  neither 
her  orthography,  chirography,  nor  syntax,  is  above  ''eproach. 
But  then  there  is  Dora — there  is  always  Dora — Dora  will 
know  what  to  say,  and  bow  to  spell  the  words  of  three 
syllables,  if  she  has  to  tackle  any  of  these  staggerers ; 
and  with  this  blissful  sense  of  refuge  she  drops  at  last  to 
sleep. 

But,  to  her  surprise  and  indignation,  Dora  flatly  refuses 
next  day. 

"  Write  your  own  love-letters,  my  dear,"  she  says,  coolly  ; 
"  it  is  a  good  rule  never  to  interfere  between  man  and  wife 
— even  if  they  are  only  man  and  wife  elect.  One  never  gets 
thanks  in  the  end.  Here  is  a  nice  sheet  of  thick  white 
paper,  a  pen  I  can  recommend,  and  a  bottle  of  ink  as  black 
as  your  eyes.  And  here  is  a  dictionary — I  know  that  is  in- 
dispensable, you  poor  little  ignoramus.  Now  begin.  Only 
I  shall  expect  to  see  this  famous  production  when  done  In 
the  annals  of  sentimental  literature  1  am  quite  sure  it  will 
stand  alone." 

Dora  is  obdurate,  deaf  to  all  pleading,  to  the  great  disgust 
of  the  letter-writer.     Thrown  thus  upon  her  own  resources, 


A    GIRDS  LETTER. 


163 


Vera,  after  sitting  for  a  while  disconsolate,  plucks  up  heart 
of  grace,  dips  her  pen  in  the  ink,  and  begins  : 

"  Charlton  Place,  Aug  ii,  18 

"  Dear  Captain  Dick  : " 

That  much  glides  off  smoothly  enough.  After  all  people 
make  a  great  deal  more  fuss  about  letter-writing  than  it  is 
ft'orth.  Vera  feels  she  would  not  accept  help  now  if  it  was 
offered — she  will  do  it  alone  or  perish — with  an  occasional 
peep  into  the  big  dictionary.  So  knitting  her  brows  into  a 
reflective  scowl,  she  goes  on,  murmuring  her  sentences  half 
aloud  as  she  writes  : 


to 


I 


•'Dear  Captain  Dick:  Dorca  has  asked  me  to  marry  you.  I  like 
you  very  mucli,  I  think  it  would  be  splendid  to  be  your  wife,  I  am  very 
much  obliged  to  you  for  wanting  me " 

*'  It  sounds  jerky,  somehoW;"  says  Vera,  pausing  discon- 
tentedly, "  and  it  has  too  many  I's.  I  never  let  Lex  put 
three  of  his  I's  so  close  together  as  that.  Dot !  you  are 
laughing  !  " 

Dora  is  holding  a  book  up  before  her  face,  and  is  shaking 
behmd  it.  At  this  accusing  cry  she  looks  over  the  top  to 
protest  she  never  was  more  serious  in  her  life,  but  in  the 
effort  explodes  into  a  perfect  shout.  Vera  lays  down  her 
pen  in  deepest  dudgeon. 

"  If  you  can  do  better,  why  don't  you  come  and  do  it  ? 
When  a  person  refuses  to  help  another  person,  and  then  can 
find  nothing  better  to  do  than  sit  and  laugh " 

"  It— it  is  lovely  ! "  gasps  Dora,  with  tears  in  her  eyes. 
"  Did  I  not  say  it  would  be  unique  ?  To  interfere  with  that 
letter  would  be  to  paint  the  lily.  Oh  !  go  on — go  on  !  'I 
am  much  obliged  to  you  for  asking  me  !  '  Oh,  my  side  !  I 
shall  die  if  I  laugh  any  more." 

"Isn't  that  right?"  inquires  Vera,  suspiciously.  "I  am 
much  obliged  to  him,  and  why  shouldn't  I  say  so  ?  " 


I 
I  ■ 


ll 


•  if 


(fil 


164 


A    GIRVS  LETTER. 


*'  VVhy,  indeed  ?  Oh,  proceed — I  promise  not  to  interrupt 
more." 

Vera  compresses  her  lips.  She  feels  that  this  is  hard  to 
bear,  and  wcnild  scratch  out  the  much  obliged,  if  siie  knew 
what  to  [)ut  in  its  place.     But  she  does  not. 

"You  miyht  liave  knocked  me  down  with  a /rt////i?;- when  Dot  told 
me.  The  idea  of  bcuig  married  to  you,  or  anybody.  Why,  I  never 
tlioutjht  of  such  a  tliuif^.  And  you  must  see  so  many  ladies  older  and 
talli'r,  and  ever  so  \\\\\<:\\  prettier  than  7ne  !  I  cannot  for  the  lile  of  me 
see  what  you  want  me  for.  ]]ut  I  would  rather  wx^xxy  you  than  anybody 
in  the  world.  And  I  tiiink  Ffrench  ^  beautiful  n'xxwQ.  Veronica  Mary 
Martinez  Ffrench  !  Does  it  not  sound  kind  of  rich  and  imposinj;?  15ut 
Airs.  Captain  Kichard  Ffrench — that  is  better  still.  And  always  to  live 
liere  (Dot  says  I  shall),  why  it  will  be  just  like  heaven.  At  least,  I 
suppose,  that  is  irreverent,  but  it  will  be  a  sort  of  paradise  on  earth — 
oidy  I  wish  you  were  not  gomg  away — it  seems  such  a  j/mwt' just  to  get 
married,  and  then  start  off  on  a  tour  with  Dr.  Iuigleha':t,  and  leave  me 
behind.  Couldn't  /  go  to  Honduras,  too?  But  thcie  !  I  knoio  I 
would  be  in  the  way.  and  I  want  to  stay  at  home  besides,  and  study  etier 
so  liard,  so  that  you  may  not  be  ashavied  of  me  when  I  grow  up  ?  The 
idea  of  a  gentleman's  w//V  growing  up.     Is  it  not  funny  ?  " 

Vera  stops,  making  insnne  plunges  at  the  inkstand,  her 
eyes  on  the  sheet,  all  in  a  glow  of  inky  inspiration.  Dora, 
indeed  !  She  would  like  to  catch  herself  asking  I>ora  to 
help  her  with  her  letters  after  this.  Why,  it  is  as  easy  as 
talking. 

"  You  must  tell  me  when  you  come  down  about  the  things  you  WHild 
like  me  to  study  hardest  when  you  are  awjkv.  I  hope  you  will  not  l,*e 
rivjP'^iticular  .about  botany  and  algebra— i  (fer/'t*  arithmetic,  ami  I  know 
I  ne\er  can  master  nine  times.  Oh  !  f  nearly  lorgot  !  I  was  dread- 
fully sorry  you  went  away  without  speaking  to  me.  but  f  vnn-  asleep  up- 
stairs, and  Dot  never  woke  me.  And  now  I  shall  only  see  you  oncf 
before  you  go,  and  then  we  will  be  in  such  a  fuss  get  tin f^  married  t]>at 
we  won't  have  time  to  say  a  single  thing.  What  a  lively  (Asat  we  Itarf 
at  Shaddeck  Light  night  before  last,  hadn't  we?  I  shall  ai<j*ay<*  love 
that  little  house,  and  I  mean  to  take  my  books  there  when  you  hxk  gone, 


I 


t 


V 


A    GIRDS  LETTER. 


165 


I 


TiA 


and  look  after  Daddy  and  the  rest  of  the  things  till  you  come  back.  I 
do  Iiope  you  will  come  back  soon.  It  will  be  aivfttlly  lonesome  when 
you  are  gone." 

Here  Vera  falls  back  in  her  chair,  exhausted,  but  trium- 
phant. She  has  filled  three  sides  of  her  sheet  already,  and 
in  her  very  finest  hand.  She  is  doubtful  whether  epistolary 
etiquette  does  not  demand  that  the  fourth  page  be  left 
blank,  but  she  will  die  rather  than  ask  Dot. 

'*  Done,  dear  ?  "  says  Dora,  coming  over.  "  Let  me  read 
it." 

Vera  yields  it  up  reluctantly.  She  feels  it  is  more  than 
Dora  deserves,  but  there  may  be  some  bad  spelling — she  has 
not  consulted  Webster — and  it  is  best  it  should  be  as  nearly 
perfect  as  possible.  She  watches  her  sister  jealously  as  she 
reads,  prepared  to  reseiit  any  symptom  of  unseemly  levity. 
]kit  Dora  holds  her  risible  faculties  well  in  hand,  and  gets 
through  without  disgracing  herself. 

*'  It  is  exquisite,  my  child  ;  it  is  all  my  fancy  painted  it. 
Now  I  think  I  would  wind  up,  if  I  were  you ;  let  him  have 
just  enough  to  make  him  wish  there  was  more." 

"■  1  think  I  have  got  in  pretty  much  e^""rything,"  says  Vera, 
musingly.  "  I  must  tell  him  to  excuse  mistakes,  and  to 
write  soon,  and  I  am  his  aftectionately.  How  do  you  spell 
aff-ec-tion-ate-ly,  Dot  ?     I  am  sure  of  it  all  but  the  *  shin.'  " 

This  knotty  point  is  got  over,  the  letter  is  finished,  folded, 
enveloi)ed.  Vera  licks  the  gum  with  relish,  and  sticks  it 
with  pride.  Then  she  writes  the  address  in  her  largest, 
noblest  hand, 

"Captain  R.  C.  Ffrench." 

Was  there  ever  such  an  idyllic  name  ?  And  the  letter  is 
an  accomi)lished  fact.  Her  first  real  letter  !  her  first  love- 
letter!  She  holds  it  from  hf^r,  and  gazes  on  it  in  that  glow 
of  pride  and  enthusiastic  rapture  with  which  a  youtliful  artist 
gazes  on  his  first  painting — now  in  this  light,  now  in  that. 


1 66 


A    GIRLS  LETTER. 


"  I  shall  post  this  myself,"  says  Vera,  with  calm  determina- 
tion. "  No  mortal  hand  shall  be  intrusted  with  it.  I  only 
hope  it  may  go  safe.  It  would  be  a  dreadful  thing  if  it  went 
astray.     Are  letters  very  often  lost.  Dot,  on  the  way  ?" 

"  Between  St.  Ann's  and  New  York  ?  No,  my  dear, 
they  are  not.  And  even  if  they  were,  this  would  be  sure  to 
go — could  not  fail  to  go.  It  is  like  a  sign-board.  I  could 
read  that  '  L Trench '  if  I  were  at  the  other  end  of  the 
garden." 

"  A  large,  bold  hand  shows  decision  of  character,"  responds 
Vera,  firmly  ;  "  and  decision  of  character  I  mean  to  have.  I 
have  a  cramp  in  my  fingers  from  making  those  letters  so 
large  and  inky.  You  might  drive  me  over  this  afternoon, 
Dot ;  it  is  too  hot  and  dusty  for  walking." 

Dora  agrees,  and  Vera,  feeling  the  need  of  relaxation  after 
this  severe  mental  strain,  whistles  to  Nero,  the  house  dog, 
and  challenging  that  black  monster  to  a  race,  they  are  soon 
tearing  up  and  down  the  avenues.  It  is  hot,  she  says,  but 
one  must  have  physical  exercise  after  a  prolonged  course  of 
writin^;,,  else  the  ai)plication  might  be  injurious  to  one's 
health.  She  has  read  that  somewhere,  and  means  to  store 
up  all  these  scraps  of  useful  information,  neatly  labelled,  to 
be  kept  until  called  for.  A  very  paragon  of  learning  and 
wisdom,  she  is  resolved,  shall  be  the  future  Mrs.  R.  C. 
Ffrench. 

Four  hours  later  the  letter,  big  with  fate,  is  posted,  and  on 
its  way  to  New  York,  and  the  destiny  of  two  people  is 
settled  for  all  time. 


,» 


•;■::« 


THE  DAYS  BEFORE. 


167 


I 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


iH 


THE    DAYS    BEFORE. 


ND  now  the  days  fly.  If  each  one  were  forty-eight 
hours  long  it  would  hardly  be  long  enough,  Dora 
Lightwood  thinks.  For  Vera  they  fly,  too,  but 
then  that  is  a  way  Vera's  days  have  always  had,  only  now 
they  seem  doubly  winged,  and  each  brings  the  eventful 
twenty-third  and  Captain  Dick  nearer.  One,  two,  three, 
four — here  is  Monday  and  Eleanor  is  going.  Really  going, 
and  Eleanor's  mannna,  seized  at  the  last  moment  with  a  sec- 
ond attack  of  neuralgia,  is  unable  to  accompany  her — unable 
to  lift  her  tortured  head  from  her  pillow.  P^leanor  must  go 
alone. 

*'  Neuralgia  !  "  laughs  Miss  Lightwood,  scornfully.  "  Left 
her  window  open  all  night,  and  the  sudden  change  to  cold, 
etc.  Bah  !  What  an  old  liar  she  is  !  "  Miss  Lightwood  al- 
ways makes  a  point  of  calling  a  spvade  a  spade.  "  She  is 
very  well  ofi'  here,  and  here  she  means  to  stay.  Well  1  we 
shall  see." 

So  Eleanor  goes  alone,  and  is  kissed  good-by  in  her  sweet- 
est way  by  Dora,  and  is  driven  to  the  station  by  that  most 
dashing  of  little  whips.  Vera  goes  too,  and  clings  to  her  at 
the  last,  tears  in  the  brown  eyes,  wistful,  imploring,  pleading, 
in  the  young  face. 

•'  Nelly  !  Nelly  !  how  sorry  I  am  you  are  going.  Oh  1 
Nelly,  I  thought  and  said  horrid  things  of  you  once.  I  am 
sorry  now ;  sorry,  sorry  !  Forgive  me,  won't  you,  before  you 
go?" 

"Thought  and  said  horrid  things  of  me  ?  Why,  my  pet," 
says  Miss  Charlton,  laughing,  "  what  had  I  done  ?" 


ir.8 


THE  DAYS  BEFORE. 


''■y 


■:si        t 


*'  Oh  !  I  am  a  wretcli !  A  little  bad-tempered  wretch ! 
You  refused  Captain  Dick  " — in  a  whisper  this,  and  the  hot 
face  hidden — "and  1  couldn't  bear  it.  And  I  hated  you — 
there  !  " 

**My  dear  child  !  how  can  you  possibly  know " 

"  I  was  in  the  room — you  didn't  see  me,  but  I  was,  and  I 
overheard.  Wasn't  it  awful?  But  I  didn't  mean  to.  I  told 
him  about  it,  and  he  said  the  loveliest  things  of  you  !  You 
are  not  angry,  are  you  ?  " 

*'  Angry,  dear  ?  Why,  no.  Only  vou  must  never  tell  that 
you— that  I " 

"  1  know — I  know.  Of  course  not.  And,  Nelly," — she 
has  taken  hold  of  a  button  of  Miss  Charlton's  jacket  and  is 
twisting  it  round  and  round — "you  are  sure — you  are  not 
sorry  now — sorry  you  said  no,  I  mean  ?" 

"  It  had  to  be  no,  Vera.  It  could  never  possibly  have 
been  anything  else." 

*'  And  you  would  not  take  him  now,  even  if  he  came  and 
offered  again  ?  " 

"No." 

"  You  are  sure  ?  " 

'*  I  am  certain."  She  smiles,  but  blushes  a  little,  too. 
"Why,  what  a  little  inquisitor  it  is  I  How  fond  you  are  of 
Captain  Dick." 

Ah  !  fond.  But  there  is  something  besides  that  fondness 
in  Vera's  face,  as  she  stands  nervously  twisting  the  button. 

"  What  is  it,  pet  ?  "  Eleanor  asks.  ''  By  the  way,  I  want 
you  to  say  good-by  for  mc  to  Captain  Dick  when  he  comes. 
We  are  never  likely  to  meet  again." 

"  Oh  !  Eleanor — are  you  not  sorry?" 

"Yes — no — yes,  I  suppose  so.  He  is  a  gallant  gentle- 
man, and  1  like  him.  Vera,  you  are  trying  to  say  something. 
Wliy,  how  you  are  blushing,  child  ! — and  here  is  my  button 
half  oft."  She  holds  the  little  destructive  hand.  "  Out  with 
it,  quick  !  there  is  the  last  bell." 


THE   DAYS  BEFORE. 


169 


..I? 


'i 


Vera  flings  her  arms  around  her  neck,  regardless  of  the 
loungers  on  the  platform,  and  whispers,  with  a  vehement 
kiss  : 

**  In  nine  days  /am  to  be  married  to  Captain  Ffrench  !  " 

The  last  bell  is  clanging — Miss  Charlion  has  barely  time 
to  rush  on  board.  There  is  not  another  word  exchanged, 
she  waves  her  hand  from  the  window,  perfectly  speechless 
with  surprise,  and  then  the  train  steams  out,  and  she  is  gone. 
The  first  gap  is  made  in  the  Charlton  summer  circle. 

They  drive  slowly  through  the  town,  taking  the  post-ofiice 
on  their  way.  What  a  sleepy  Sunday  stillness  reigns — every 
green  lattice  is  shut  on  the  white  front  of  each  small  house, 
no  one  stirs  abroad,  the  wooden  pavements  blister  in  the 
August  sun.  The  black  wharves  project  into  the  harbor, 
old,  decaying,  with  the  ceaseless  wash  and  fret  of  the  rip- 
pling tide,  slipping  in  and  out  forever  among  their  rotting 
planks.  St.  Ann's,  always  drowsy,  lies  sluggishly  asleep, 
this  warm,  dusty,  midsummer  afternoon. 

A  letter  av/aits  Vera — a  note,  rather — in  a  hand  she  knows 
well.  She  tears  it  open  in  a  second,  and  runs  her  eye  over 
its  three  or  four  sentences.  He  has  received  hers.  He  is 
glad  that  she  is  glad.  He  ^"ill  do  what  he  can  to  make  her 
happy.  He  hopes  she  will  never  regret  this  step.  He  will 
be  with  them  by  ten  o'clock  on  Friday,  the  twenty-third.  Dr. 
Englt'hart  will  accompany  him.  And  he  is  very  affection- 
ately hers,  R.  C.  F. 

It  is  a  disappointing  little  billet — it  is  not  in  the  least  what 
Vera  expects.  Such  short  sentences  !  and  so  few  of  them. 
She  could  do  better  herself!  And  he  is  used  to  writincr  let- 
ters,  too — has  she  not  seen  them  ? — long,  learned  letters,  full 
of  polysyllabic  words  that  Vera  could  neither  spell  nor  pro- 
nounce if  it  were  ever  so,  letters  that  are  printed  in  stupid 
scientific  quarterlies,  heavier  than  lead.  Such  a  short, 
scrubby,  unsatisfactory 

"  And  what  does  he  mean  by  regretting  ?  "  she  cries  out 


tf.1 


170 


THE   DAYS  BEFORE. 


■'f 


resentfully  :  "  as  if  I  was  ever  likely  to  regret.  When  ^  told 
liini,  too,  I  was  ddii^htcd.  I  think  he  might  very  well  have 
made  it  a  whole  page.  Such  a  nice,  long  letter  as  I  sent 
him.  And  tiie  very  first  he  has  ever  written  to  me  !  I  must 
say " 

"  No,  you  mustn't.  Captain  Ffrench  is  very  busy  just  now, 
remember,"  says  Dora,  smoothly,  "and  has  very  little  time 
for  letter  writing.  He  will  not  fail  on  the  twenty-third — that 
is  the  main  thing." 

"  Fail  !  "  repeats  Vera,  staring  ;  but  Dora  only  laughs,  and 
whijis  up  the  ponies. 

There  is  silence.  Vera  feels  aggrieved,  and  looks  it.  This 
is  not  the  sort  of  thing  she  has  expected  at  all.  If  this  is 
what  they  call  a  love-letter,  then  she  doesn't  think  much  of 
love-letters.  If  he  means  to  send  her  six  mean,  stingy  sen- 
tences every  time  he  writes  from  Honduras,  he  may  keep 
them  !  She  will  tell  him  her  opinion  of  this  effusion  the 
next  time  tJiey  meet. 

But  though  Captain  Ffrench's  first  note  to  his  bride-elect 
is  as  brief  and  non-committal  as  note  well  can  be,  he  writes 
to  his  step-father,  on  the  same  subject,  a  sufficiently  lengthy 
epistle. 


'J 


4 


"  The  more  I  think  of  it,"  he  says,  ''  the  more  abundantly  convinced 
am  1  tliat  tliis  saciificc  is  at  once  absiu-d  and  imnecessary.  In  the  first 
moments  of  bewilderment,  a  ad  overwhelmed  by  the  tears  and  reproaches 
of  Miss  Lightwood,  I  was  all  at  sea.,  but  now  I  know,  I  feel,  when  it  is 
too  late  to  draw  back,  that  this  Quixofic  marriage  is  utterly  nonsensical. 
Tiie  accident  of  Vera's  having  remained  a  night  at  Shaddeck  with  me 
could  never  spoil  Iier  future  life  as  tiiis  marriage  may — as  this  marriage 
must.  Wliat  does  she  know  of  herself — of  marriage  ?  She  is  a  girl  in 
years,  a  babe  in  knowledge  of  the  world.  In  the  time  that  is  to  come 
she  may  bitterly  rue  this  union,  into  which  accident  and  woman's  prudery 
are  driving  me.  Of  myself  I  say  little.  In  the  future,  whatever  I  can 
do  to  make  her  happy  I  trust  I  shall  do.  To  like  her  as  a  child  is  easy, 
to  love  iier  as  a  woman  may  be  impossible.  Who  is  to  foretell  what 
kind  of  woman  any  given  girl  of  sixteen  may  make  ?     I  have  no  more  wish 


,n>i*jiJliu!H*n>^ 


THE  DAYS  BEFORE. 


171 


I 


to  sacrifice  my  life  to  a  scruple  of  propriety  than  other  men,  but  having 
pledged  myself  to  her  sister,  at  any  cost  to  myself,  I  shall  keep  my  word. 
"  Duriny  the  term  of  my  absence,  it  becomes  a  simple  matter  of  ne- 
cessity tliat  Vera  shall  remain  under  your  care,  eiliier  at  Charlton  with  a 
competent  governess,  or  some  good  school.  I  should  naturally  prefer  a 
convent,  as  we  are  both  Catholics.  As  you  are  one  of  the  chief  ad- 
vocates of  the  marriage,  I  have  no  hesitation  in  making  this  claim  upon 
you.  Vera  must  be  your  exclusive  charge  until  my  return.  When  that 
return  may  be,  it  is  impossible  exactly  to  say,  and  if  in  the  chapter  of 
accidents  I  should  never  return  at  all,  I  apjieal  to  your  generosity  to  pro- 
vide for  the  poor  child's  life.  That  non-return  would  probably  be  the 
best  thing  that  could  befall ;  it  would  give  her  back  her  freedom  and  the 
average  chance  at  least  of  happiness  with  a  husband  of  her  own  choice." 

Afr.  Charlton  reads  this  letter  with  compressed  lips  and 
angry  eyes.  He  usually  jiasses  his  corresi)ondence  of  late 
over  to  Miss  Lightwood — he  has  got  into  a  way  of  making 
her  his  amanuensis,  but  for  obvious  reasons  he  says  nothing 
of  this.  He  locks  it  up  in  his  desk,  and  does  not  aiisvw  r  it. 
So  after  all  the  headstrong,  obstinate  fool  is  going.  Will-  or 
no  wife  he  will  keep  his  word  to  the  expedition  and  start  for 
Honduras.  Since  it  must  be  so,  he  might  as  well  have  gone 
free  as  fettered— so  far  as  Mr.  Charlton  is  concerned  the  re- 
sult will  be  the  same.  He  chooses  Englehart  and  Central 
An. erica  instead  of  his  step-father  and  Charlton.  He  must 
abide  by  that  choice.  Fortunes,  as  a  rule,  do  not  go  begging ; 
he  will  force  no  man  to  be  his  heir. 

But  he  loves  the  lad — oh  !  he  loves  him,  and  it  is  hard. 
It  is  hard  to  let  him  go,  hard  to  feel  he  may  never  look  in 
his  face  again,  hard  to  feel  that  his  affection  is  unreturned. 
}Ie  covers  his  face  with  a  sort  of  groan.  He  is  an  old  man, 
he  grows  frail  fast,  he  has  counted  on  Dick  as  the  prop  of  his 
last  years.  Now  tnose  years  must  be  passed  alone — not  even 
a  wife  can  hold  the  boy  back.  Well !  well !  at  least  if  he 
cannot  command  his  obedience,  he  can  make  him  pay  the 
penalty  of  his  self-will.  Keep,  and  provide  for  Vera.  Yes, 
he  is  ready  enough  to  do  that ;  it  will  be  a  pleasure,  a  com- 


!•'■; 


( 


!{ 


]f: 


V' 


1 


Si:. 


( if  i| 
ir  I" 


X**"  «' 


172 


THE  DAYS  BEFORE. 


fort,  to  keep  something  young  and  bright  about  him,  and  he 
is  ready  to  acknowledge  her  claim  ;  but  no  one  can  fill  his 
wayward  step-son's  place,  no  one  ever  can  or  will. 

"  Has  Captain  Ffrench  written  to  i\fr.  Charlton?"  Dora 
asks,  one  day,  as  Mr.  Charlton  remains  moodily  silent. 
*'  He  sent  Vera  two  or  three  lines  simply  to  say  he  would  be 
here  with  Dr.  P^nglehart  at  ten  on  Friday  morning,  but  not  a 
word  of  his  future  intentions.  And  for  Vera's  sake  I  am  anx- 
ious to  know  whether  he  means  to  go  or  stay." 

"  He  means  to  go,"  is  the  gloomy  answer. 

"  And  Vera,  sir  ?  " 

*'  Vera  is  my  care  ;  she  remains  with  me,  of  course.  She 
must  have  a  governess,  and  spend  the  next  two  years  in  hard 
study.  She  will  be  over  eighteen  then,  and  a  young  woman 
— let  us  hoi)e  a  clever  and  accomplished  one — amiable  I  am 
sure  she  will  be,  and  good.  His  absence — confound  him  ! — 
will  not  extend  over  that  period.  Dick  is  a  good-tempered 
fellow  as  ever  breathed,  but  as  pig-headed  as  the  majority 
when  he  sets  his  mind  on  a  thing.  And  he  seems  to  consid- 
er it  a  question  of  honor  here,"  says  Mr.  Charlton,  trying,  in 
spite  of  himself,  to  make  the  best  of  it  to  a  third  party. 

Dora  sits  silently,  ])laying  nervously  with  her  watch-chai.;, 
which,  with  its  essential  appendage,  is  a  recent  and  expensive 
present  from  her  host. 

"  You  need  have  no  fears  for  Vera,  my  dear  Dora,"  he 
goes  on  ;  "it  shall  be  at  once  my  happiness  and  my  duty  to 
provide  for  her.  I  am  glad  she  is  to  remain.  Charlton  will 
be  lonely  enough  soon,  Heaven  knows." 

"  It  is  not  that,  sir,"  Dora  says,  and  covers  her  face  with 
her  hands.  "  I  am  selfish — I  was  thinking  of  myself.  She  is 
all  I  have — we  two  are  so  utterly  alone ;  and  when  I  go  back 

to  the  old  life  and  leave  her  here "     She  breaks  down, 

and  lifts  two  lovely,  streaming  eyes.  "  Oh,  forgive  me  ! "  she 
sobs.     "  What  will  you  think  of  me  ?     But — but " 

Mr.  Charlton  is  moved  to  the  depths  of  his  genial,  kindly 


THE  DAYS  BEFORE. 


173 


old  heart.  A  poor  little  woman  in  tears  is  always,  he  holds, 
a  pathetic  sight ;  a  pretty  little  woman  in  tears  is  soinethin-^ 
to  subjugate  the  universe,  liut  he  never  (piite  knows  what 
to  say  on  these  su|)reine  occasions. 

"  I  have  known  so  little  pleasure,  so  little  happiness  in 
my  short  life,"  soi)s  Dora,  behind  a  perfumed  bit  of  lace  and 
lawn — very  well  for  this  sort  of  thing,  but  ridicul  )us  if  taken 
in  connection  with  a  cold  in  the  head.  "  It  has  been  all 
work,  work,  work,  since  the  cruel  war  that  robbed  us  of  every- 
thing.   And  now  that  I  have  known  Charlton  and/f //,  sir ' 

Sobs  choke  her  utterance — language  fails. 

This  is  llattering — Mr.  Charlton  feels  it  so.  His  amour 
propre  has  just  received  a  mortal  wound — the  artless  con- 
fession between  the  flowing  tears  of  lovely  woman  is  as  a 
soothing  salve.  And  she  is  so  i)retty — crying  does  not  si)oil 
Dora,  nor  redden  the  point  of  her  pretty  nose.  If  it  did  you 
may  be  sure  Miss  Lightwuod  would  give  idle  tears  a  wide 
berth.  She  is  so  pretty,  so  forlorn,  so  young,  so — so  every- 
thing that  can  addle  the  brain  of  a  good-hearted,  siinple- 
souled  old  gentleman.  He  rises  and  bends  above  her, 
deeply  moved,  and  tries  to  take  away  the  dampened  scrap 
of  handkerchief  from  before  the  [)ale,  tear-wet  face. 

"  Dora  !  my  dear  Dora — my  dear  child,  don't — I  beg  of 
you,  don't.  Why  go  at  all  ?  Charlton  is  a  large  house,  and 
1  am  a  very  lonely  man.  Stay  with  your  sister,  stay  with  her 
always,  stay  with  me.  She  will  need  you — /  will  need  you, 
the  house  will  need  you.  Stay  with  me  as — as  my  daugh- 
ter." 

Miss  Light  wood  starts  to  her  feet  as  if  stung.  Two  blue, 
soft,  tearful,  sad,  reproachful  eyes  look  at  him  a  moment. 
*'  As  your  daughter  ?  "    murmurs  a  choking  voice  ;  *'  and  I 

■ — in  my  madness,  have No,  no,  it  can  never  be  !  "  And 

then  she  breaks  from  him  with  an  inarticulate  sobbing  sound, 
and  rushes  out  of  the  room,  and  upstairs,  and  into  her  own. 

**  And  if  that  does  not  open  his  nonsensical  old  eyes," 


i'l  € 


','h. 


ii 


f 


1 


174 


THE  DAYS  BEFORE. 


S: 


says  Miss  LiglUwood,  b  iskly,  going  over  to  the  glass  and 
adjusting  her  front  frizzes,  "  1  will  speak  a  little  plainer 
next  time." 

"And  be  sure  it  has  a  tail — train,  I  mean — at  least  one 
yard  long — not  a  finger-length  less,  Mrs.  Jones,  and  make 
tlie  waist  as  puffy  as  you  can,  so  that  [  may  look  as  if  I  had 
a  tendency  to  embonpoint — which  I  haven't.  And  as  I  am 
not  to  have  a  bustle,  my  sister  says,  1  want  you  to  fix  some 
arrangement  of  stiff  muslin  that  will  do  instead— you  under- 
stand ?  lUit  whatever  else  you  do,  make  the  train  a — full — 
yard — long." 

Thus  emphatically  Miss  Vera  Martinez  to  the  dressmaker. 
She  stands  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  solemnly  gesticulating, 
her  face  wearing  all  tlie  gravity — the  seriousness  of  the 
point  at  issue  demands.  A  sheeny  pile  of  creamy  white  silk 
lies  near  the  dress  in  (juestio.i,  to  which  the  yard-long  tail  is 
to  be  appended  and  is  Miss  Martinez's  wedding  robe. 

"And  do  not  fail  us  on  Thursday  afternoon,"  says  a 
second  voice,  sharj),  and  a  tritle  imperious;  "the — the  din- 
ner-party occurs  on  I'"riday,  and  there  must  not  be  the 
slightest  delay,  Mrs.  Jones.  We  will  drive  over  about  four 
on  Thursday,  and  fetch  it  away." 

"There  shall  be  no  delay,  JVTiss  Lightwood,  I  never  fail 
my  customers,  and  I  have  no  other  work  just  now." 

"  If  this — party  dress,  is  a  success  you  shall  have  an 
abundance  of  work  in  future,  Mrs.  Jones — I  can  promise  you 
that,"  says  Miss  Lightwood,  graciously,  drawing  on  her  gloves. 
"  Come,  Vera.  Do  not  forget  my  instructions  about  the 
point-lace  trimming,  Mrs.  Jones." 

"  And  do  not  forget  my  instructions  about  the  train,  Mrs. 
Jones,"  says  the  more  youthful  voice,  "  a  yard  long.  Mind 
that ! " 

She  holds  up  an  admonitory  finger. 

"  One — yard — long  !  "  she  reiterates,  and  then  goes  after 
her  sister  out  to  where  the  pony-phaeton  stands. 


I 

1 

I 


ti' 


THE  DAYS  liEFORE. 


175 


h 


H 


-I 


*'  And  I  hope  to  goodness  she  wont  make  a  botch  of  it," 
says  Dora,  taking  the  reins.  "  Put  not  your  faith  in  country 
dressmakers.  If  there  only  had  been  time  to  order  it  from 
Madame  Le  Hrun's,"  with  a  regretful  sigh. 

"And  I  hope  to  goo(hiess  she  wont  shorten  it  behind," 
says  Vera.  **  The  rest  may  go  ;  but,  fit  or  no  fit,  a  train  to 
it  I  must  have.  To  think  of  a  white  silk  dress  like  wrinkled 
skins  on  scalded  milk,  as  somebody  says  somewhere,  with  a 
train  trailing  a  full  yard  behind  !"  says  Vera,  in  a  sort  of 
solemn  rapture. 

"  Only  four  days  now — how  they  do  fly  I  I  told  Harriet 
before  I  came  out,  Vera." 

*'  Yet;  ?  "  says  Vera,  giving  a  smart  slap  to  a  musciuito 
that  alights  on  her  nose  ;  "and  what  did  she  say  ?  Did  she 
snap  your  head  otT?" 

Harriet  is  the  Charlton  houschceper,  a  maiden  lady  of 
uncertain  age  and  temper,  and  not  a  person  to  have  house- 
hold secrets  from. 

*'  Not  exactly.  She  was  snai)pish,  though,  as  usual,  and 
grumbled  about  the  shortness  of  the  time,  and  the  length  of 
the  coming  breakfast.  Vera,  I  shall  send  that  old  maid 
about  her  bisiness  one  of  these  days." 

"  You  will !  "  says  Vera.  "  Upon  my  word  !  You  had 
better  wait  until  Mr.  Charlton  can  fill  her  place,  I  think." 

*'Mr.  Charlton  has  filled  her  place,  my  dear." 

"  Has  he  ?  Who  is  the  new  one  ?  I  feel  interested  natu- 
rally— a  housekeeper  can  make  things  dreadfully  unpleasant 
when  she  likes.     Another  old  maid  ?  " 

"  No — o — not  exactly — getting  along  though.  The  new 
housekeeper  will  be  a  married  lady,  Vera,"  says  Dora,  and 
laughs.  "  I  think  yo'^  will  like  her.  It  was  I  who  recom- 
mended her  to  Mr.  Charlton's  notice.  lilit  it  is  a  secret  yet 
— you  are  not  to  say  a  word  to  him  or  any  one." 

"  When  is  she  coming  ?  " 

'*  Well — that  is  not  quite  decided    either.     But  this   fall 


ill 


I 


1    'I 


•»■, 


1/6 


THE  DAYS  BEFORE. 


41 


|iT,i«7l^     T 


some  time,  for  certain.  I  think  Harriet  will  not  be  the  only 
old  woman  in  Charlton  her  advent  will  astonish."  Dora 
laughs  again  at  some  inward  jt)ke. 

"I  wonder  when  Afrs.  Charlton  means  to  go?"  says 
Vera,  appositely  enough. 

*•  Not  a  day  sooner  than  she  is  obliged.  Nasty  old  thing 
— she  is  exactly  like  an  over-fed  tabby  cat.  The  idea  of  her 
l)retending  neuralgia,  and  Mr.  Charlton  taking  it  in  good 
faith,  until  I  undeceived  him.  I  mean  to  tell  her  on  Thurs- 
day evening." 

**  About  the  housekeeper?" 

"  No  ;  about  your  wedding.  How  furious  she  will  be, 
and  how  she  will  try  to  hide  it,  and  what  a  death's-head 
stare  and  smile  Siie  will  give  me.  I  expect  to  enjoy  it.  She 
made  so  sure  of  getting  that  i>oor  Dick  for  a  son-in-law.  \\y 
the  way,  have  you  answered  his  letter.  Vera?"  • 

"  1  would  not  demean  myself  by  answering  such  a  scrubby 
little  affair,"  answers  Vera,  with  dignity.  "  I  never  will 
write  to  him  if  he  sends  me  such  notes  from  Honduras,  and 
so  I  mean  to  tell  him.  Here  we  are,  and  there  is  Mr. 
Charlton  waiting  for  us." 

Afr.  Charlton  is  always  wa'iing  for  them  of  late,  for  Dora, 
at  least,  and  within  the  last  two  days  seems  to  have  ascended 
into  the  rosy  realms  of  bliss.  Perhai)s  it  is  the  prospect  of  a 
wedding  that  brightens  him,  perhaps  it  is  the  joy  of  speedy 
emancipation  from  the  iron  rule  of  Harriet — at  all  events 
the  change  is  there.  And  IVfrs.  Charlton  at  her  window, 
like  an  elderly  Sister  Anne  on  her  watch-tower,  glooms  down 
upon  them,  and  has  a  vague  feeling  that  something  is  going 
on  from  which  she  is  excluded.  Mr.  Charlton  is  as  plastic 
wax  in  the  hands  of  Dora  Lightwood  ;  there  is  no  vagueness 
about  that,  at  least",  and  his  infatuation  bodes  ill  for  lier  pro- 
longed stay  at  Charlton. 

One,  two,  three — the  bright  days  fly.  It  is  Thursday,  and 
the  eve  of  the  wedding.     Vera  gets  up  early,  but  that  is  one 


f 


THE  DAYS  BEFORE. 


177 


\i  1 


•4 

f 


of  Vera's  virtues.  To-morrow  Cuptain  Dick  will  come — to- 
morrow is  her  wedding-day — to-morrow^  she  will  see  hitn, 
speak  to  him,  belong  to  him  her  whole  life  long.  The 
thought  is  rapturous.  And  how  lucky  the  weather  is  fine — 
quite  "queen's  weather'' — not  a  cloud  in  the  sky.  Vera 
feels  it  would  go  near  to  break  her  heart  to  be  married  in  a 
rain-storm.  Friday  is  an  ominous  day,  an  unfashionable 
(lay,  an  out-of-the-way  sort  of  day  to  be  married  on.  Cap- 
tain Dick  ought  to  have  known  better  Uhan  to  select  it,  but 
men  are  dreadfully  obtuse  about  matriiixi>nial  matters.  So 
that  the  priest,  and  the  bride,  and  (he  bri<'legroom  are  there, 
they  actually  seem  to  think  other  things  secowlary.  Vera's 
state  is  not  one  of  unalloyed  bliss.  Captain  j^ick  is  going 
away;  it  may  rain  ;  there  is  never  any  tru*<fing  the  weather 
at  picnics  or  weddings.  And  she  has  her  do^'jbts  about  that 
train  ;  if  Mrs.  Jones,  possessed  by  some  spi<  t  malignant, 
should  curtail  it.  Such  things  have  been  known.  Harriet, 
too,  is  still  grumbling  about  the  breakfast.  No  change  in  her 
own  ajipearance  has  taken  place,  liones  and  sailowness 
are  precisel)'  as  they  were  ;  her  hair  has  not  grown  percep- 
tibly longer ;  her  forn)  has  not  assumed  any  observable  re- 
dundancy ;  she  is  neither  handsomer,  taller,  plumi)er,  wiser 
than  if  to-morrow  were  not  her  wedding-day.  She  is  afraid, 
seriously  afraid,  Captain  Dick  may  be  disaj)pGinted.  He 
must  have  seen  very  many  pretty  women  lately.  She  knows 
what  sort  of  faces  are  to  be  seen  on  the  streets  of  New 
York  ;  it  will  be  a  crushing  thing  if  he  looks  disajipointed. 
Vera's  musings  run  something  in  this  way.  Of  the  real 
seriousness,  of  the  awful  life-long  nature  of  the  step  she  is 
taking,  she  thinks  not  at  all.  She  is  to  be  married  to  Cap- 
tain Dick  ;  she  likes  that.  She  would  like  to  go  wandering 
with  him  over  the  world — up  among  the  icebergs,  down 
among  tiie  cocoa-nut  groves,  to  "  Sail  the  seas  over,"  to  see 
foieign  parts,  to  be  wrecked  with  him  on  desert  islands,  and 
live  in  nice  little  huts,  and   eat  breadfruit  and  yams  (Vera 


I:      !i 


■I 


i 


ill! 


III 


♦, 


178 


r//E   DAYS  BEFORE. 


rather  confounds  this  fruit  with  small  sugar-cured  portions 
of  pig,  hung  up  in  yellow  bags  outside  of  groceries)  and 
dried  grapes,  and  bring  up  goats  in  the  way  they  should  go, 
and  have  a  lovely  time  all  by  themselves,  in  some  emerald 
isle  of  the  Pacific. 

Vague,  foolish,  romantic,  nonsensical,  are  all  Vera's 
dreams  ;  but  always,  clear  and  bright,  strong,  noble,  tall, 
upright,  handsome,  peerless,  her  hero  stands,  the  central 
figure.  Go  where  she  will,  Vera  knows  she  will  never  see 
his  like. 

Breakfast  time  comes  ;  luncheon  comes  ;  afternoon  comes. 
Harriet's  brow  is  lowering  ;  Mr.  CharUon  looks  fidgety  and 
nervous ;  Vera's  pulses  thrill  and  flJ.ltter.  Dora  alone  is 
calm,  intrepid,  cool  of  head,  steady  of  pulse,  clear  of  eye, 
equal  to  any  fate.  No  one  of  the  household  knows  except 
the  aforesaid  Harriet,  whose  gloomy  forte  is  secrecy.  No 
one  outside  the  household  knows,  except  Father  Damer, 
pastor  of  the  little  white  church  of  the  Assumption,  on  the 
hill,  and  with  him  silence  is  duty.  Dora  professes  no  relig- 
ion whatever  in  the  frankest  manner,  but  Vera  is  a  Cuban, 
and  a  devout  little  daughter  of  Mother  Church,  and  jealously 
insists  on  having  her  nuptial  mass,  and  all  the  bridal  bless- 
ings P'ather  Damer  can  bestow.  Nothing  further  has  been 
heard  from  the  bridegroom,  but  he  will  not  fail — no  one  has 
ever  known  the  ex-cavalry  captain  to  fail  at  the  post  of  duty 
or  danger.     This  is  both. 

At  four,  precisely,  the  pony  phaeton  draws  up  in  front  of 
Mrs.  Jones'  front  door.  The  dress  is  finished,  the  train — 
Vera  gives  one  terrified  glance  that  changes  slowly  to  ec- 
stasy as  it  is  spread  out  before  her — it  is  every  inch  the 
train.  She  draws  a  long  breath  of  relief,  and  sits  down  on  a 
chair,  as  though  this  realization  of  all  the  dreams  of  her  life 
was  too  nuich  for  her. 

•'  It  has  preyed  on  my  mind,"  she  says,  faintly,  "  it  has 
preyed    on    my  mind    to    that   extent — Dot,  you    know    I 


I 

■4 


t 


r*l 


-» 


THE  DAYS  BEFORE. 


179 


i 


r»s 


couldn't  take  half  my  lunch  this  noon.  I  felt  sure  it  would 
be  short." 

It  is  not  short — it  is  not  a  misfit  ;  it  satisfies  even  Miss 
Lightvvood.  It  is  ])acked  and  put  in  the  carriage,  and  then 
they  sweep  through  St.  Ann's  to  make  a  few  last  purchases. 
When  she  drives  along  these  streets  next,  Vera  thinks,  it  will 
be  as  Mrs.  Captain  Ffrench — Mrs.  R.  C.  Ffrench — Mrs. 
Veronica  Mary  Martinez  Ffrench — Mrs.  Dick  Ffrench — 
Vera  Ffrench, 

She  has  rung  the  changes  on  this  most  exquisite  cogno- 
men over  and  over  again.  She  has  written  it  in  every  pos- 
sible and  impossible  siyle  of  chirograi)hy  some  five  hundred 
times  ;  she  h;\s  re[>ea  ed  it  aloud,  to  hear  how  it  sounds. 
To-morrow  by  this  time  she  will  have  ceased  to  be  Vera 
Martinez  and  becoine  Vera  Ffrench;  and  Caj)tain  Dick — 
her  husband — this  time  to-morrow  will  be  back  in  New  York, 
and  the  long,  long  separation  will  have  begun.  He  will 
stay  with  them  but  a  few  hours — has  he  not  said  so  ? — and 
the  next  day  he  sails.  Ah  !  no  fear  of  h'ir  forgetting  that. 
Through  all  the  foolishness,  through  all  the  childishness, 
through  all  the  nonsense,  that  fact  is  ever  present  to  sadden 
and  subdue.      He  is  going  away. 

An  hour  later,  Mrs.  Charlton,  on  her  way  upstairs,  is  way- 
laid by  Miss  Lightwood,  a  smile  on  her  lip,  and  malice  pre- 
pense in  her  eye. 

"  Come  into  Vera's  room  a  moment,  will  you,  please,  Mrs. 
Charlton  ?     I  have  something  to  show  you." 

Mrs.  Charlton  eyes  her  enemy  distrustfully.  An  armed 
neutrality  obtains  at  present,  but  open  hostilities  are  iuuni- 
nent  at  any  moment  between  these  conflicting  forces. 

"Something  to  show   me,    Miss   Lightwood ''    she   is 

stiffly  beginning,  but  Dora  cuts  in  : 

"  Oh,  come  !  "  she  says,  airily  ;  **  I  will  not  detain  you  a 
moment.     And  I  think  it  will  surprise  even  j^«." 

Curiosity  ha'^  its  full  share  in  Mrs.  Charlton  ;  it  is  stronger 


■J 


II 


T 


,i 


lag 


\H 


fit 
•■'1 


1^    ^ 


1 

i 

■r 

■.:i 

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«* 

i^ 

;? 

'.)''. 

i8o 


r//£  DAVS  BEFORE. 


even  than  her  hearty  desire  to  disoblij^e   Miss  Lightvvood. 
She  follows  suspiciously. 

"  This  way,"  Dora  says,  and  leads  on  into  her  own  sleep- 
ing-room. 

And  then  indeed  Mrs.  Charlton  starts,  stares,  is  dumb. 
For  before  the  glass  stands  Vera — is  it  Vera  ? — that  grace- 
ful figure  in  trailing  white  silk,  silk  rich  enough  to  '*  stand 
alone,"  with  the  cloud  of  illusion  on  its  head  and  dropi)ing 
to  the  cari)et,  and  that  virginal  orange  crown  ?  Around  the 
slim  neck  is  a  rope  of  i)earls  fit  for  a  Russian  princess,  in 
the  small  ears  pearls,  on  the  slender  hands  glittering  gems, 
on  the  taper  feet  white  satin  shoes.  It  is  Vera  ;  but  a 
transfigured  Vera.  IJ)ress  does  make  a  difference.  In 
sweeping  white  silk  and  pearls,  it  is  a  very  different  girl  from 
the  romp  in  short  dresses  who  races,  flush.od  and  breathless, 
with  Nero  up  and  down  the  Charlton  woods. 

"  What — ivhat  is  it  ?  "  she  asks. 

"It  is  Vera's  wedding-dress,"  says  Dora,  and  her  blue 
eyes  go  like  two  dagger-points  through  her  enemy's  corslet  ; 
"and  to-morrow  is  Vera's  wedding  day  !  " 

Mrs.  Charlton  can  by  no  possibility  stare  harder  than  she 
is  staring  already — if  she  could  there  is  no  doubt  but  that 
at  this  announcement  her  eyes  would  drop  from  their 
orbits. 

"  Her — wedding — day  !  " 

"  Her  wedding-day  my  dear^  Mrs.  Charlton.  She  has 
stolen  a  march  on  us  older  and  wiser  ones.  Only  sixteen — 
is  it  not  a  shame?  but  Captain  Ffrench  would  have  it 
And  the  dress — is  it  not  exquisite  ?  And  those  pearls,  look 
at  them,  Mrs.  Charlton^  nearer  please— ryou  arc  short-sighted 
like  myself — the  finest  set  in  Tifflmy's.  Are  they  not  fit  for 
a  duchess  ?  And  this  point — but  perhaps  you  are  not  a 
judge  of  point.  Unless  one  is  in  the  profession,  as  I  am, 
one  is  ai)t  to  see  so  little  of  real  point  lace.  The  veil  is  only 
illusion — there  was  no  time  to  import  a  bridal  veil.     Does 


I 


THE  DAYS  BEFORE. 


l8l 


not  white  become  her,  gypsy  though   she  is  ?     Turn  round 
Vera,  and  let  Mrs.  Charlton  see  the  train — perfeci,  is  it  not  ?  " 

Vera  slowly  revolves  hke  a  great  wax-work.  Through  the 
veil  she  looks  almost  ethereal — so  slight,  so  white,  so  misty. 

"  Married  to-morrow  !  "  Mrs.  Charlton  can  but  just  gasp. 

"Sudden,  isn't  it?  but  he  is  obliged  to  go  the  next  day  ; 
and  as  I  .say,  he  would  have  it.  It  is  by  his  wish,  too,  that 
we  have  not  told  you — or  any  one,"  after  a  malicious  pause. 

"  Now  that  your  horrid  neuralgia  is  better — oh  !  what  an 
inconvenient  thing  is  that  neuralgia  !  you  will  be  able  to 
come  with  us  to  church.  The  marriage  is  to  take  j^lace  at 
the  Assumption  at  eleven,  with  a  mass  and  the  whole  nup- 
tial ritual  of  the  Catholic  Church.  Then  we  return  to  a  de- 
jeuner^ and  after  that,  I  regret  to  say,  poor  Captain  Ffrench 
is  obliged  to  leave  us.  That  tiresome  expedition  you  know, 
and  he  is  such  a  man  of  honor  that  he  would  not  on  any 
account  go  from  his  word." 

Mrs.  Charlton  is  beginning  to  recover.  The  suddenness 
of  the  blow  has  partially  stunned  her,  but  now  she  draws 
her  breath,  and  looks  at  her  daring,  triumphant,  malicious 
little  foe. 

"  A  man  of  honor  ?  "  she  repeats  :  **  so  it  seems,  and  the 
greatest  fool  under  heaven  !  Do  you  really  mean  to  tell  me 
that " 

"  Vera  dear,  we  will  leave  you,"  says  Dora  sweetly.  *'  Be 
very  cp,reful  not  to  rumple  the  things  taking  them  off.  Now 
if  you  are  ready,  Mrs.  Charlton " 

She  has  her  out  of  the  room  and  into  the  hall,  before  Mrs. 
Charlton  actually  knows  what  she  is  about.  Then  Dora 
faces  her  swiftly,  fiercely. 

"  If  you  say  one  word  before  Vera,  you  will  repent  it  to 
the  last  day  of  your  life,"  she  exclaims,  and  there  is  some- 
thing so  wicked  in  her  eyes  that  the  elder  woman  recoils. 
The  next  moment  she  is  gone — rustling  down  the  staircase, 
and  cowed  and  vanquished  Mib.  Charlton  goes  to  her  room. 


X     ,. 


i^ 


li 


182 


CAPTAIN  DICK'S    WEDDING. 


!    I 


Vera  does  not  descend  to  dinner — Dora  orders  her  ra- 
tions to  the  maiden  bower.  Mr.  Charlton,  more  and  more 
nervous  as  the  dreaded  hour  draws  near,  sits  silent  and  out 
of  sorts.  Mrs.  Charlton  is  glum  and  speechless.  Dora  is 
cheerful  and  chatty,  but  nothing  can  lift  the  ante-nuptial 
gloom.  In  her  heart  she  too  is  nervous,  and  worried,  and 
anxious  to  have  it  all  over.  It  is  such  an  abnormal  sort  of 
wedding  and  even  men  of  honor  may  fail.  Something  may 
happen,  Dr.  Englehart  may  pooh-pooh  him  out  of  it — she 
will  not  breathe  freely  until  half-past  eleven  to-morrow.  By 
that  time,  if  all  goes  well . 

Dinner  proceeds,  dessert  ends,  there  is  the  drawing-room, 
more  silence,  and  vague  des[)ondency.  Darkness  falls,  the 
summer  night  lies  over  the  world,  and  restless  and  worried 
Dora  goes  out  under  the  whispering  trees,  and  looks  up  at 
her  sister's  windows. 

"  And  if  all  does  go  well  I  hope  she  may  be  happy,"  she 
says  with  a  touch  of  vague  fear  and  compunction,  "  poor  lit- 
tle Vera." 


1  ■ 


CHAPTER   XIX. 


f ;  in  I 


■A 


CAPTAIN    dick's   WEDDING. 

NCE  more  the  sun  has  risen,  and  shines  for  the 
last  time  in  all  the  days  of  its  shining  on  Vera 
Martinez.  For  when  it  reaches  the  zenith  yonder, 
there  will  be  no  Vera  Martinez  any  more,  but  in  her  place 
Vera  PTrench,  the  bride.  She  has  not  a  very  bride-like  look 
just  at  this  moment,  standing  by  the  window,  blinking  up 
anxiously  at  the  rising  luminary,  to  make  quite  sure  there 
are  no  ominous  mare's  tails  in    the  horizon,  with  a  print 


CAPTAIN  DICK'S    WEDDING. 


183 


dressing-gown  thrown  around  her,  and  her  short  crop  of 
boyish  black  curls  standing  up  on  end.  It  is  about  five,  and 
she  has  just  got  up,  amazed,  and  a  trifle  disgusted  with  her- 
silf  to  find  she  has  slept  like  a  top  all  night.  "I  don't  ex- 
pect to  sleep  a  wink  until  morning,"  she  had  said  solenmly 
the  last  thing  to  her  sister,  and  lo  !  before  the  curly  head 
was  fairly  on  the  pillow,  deceitful  slumber  stole  upon  her, 
and  claimed  her  for  its  own.  After  all,  how  little  of  a  hero- 
ine she  is — she  sighs  as  she  thinks  of  it  ;  heroines  always 
keep  awake,  and  sit  by  their  casements  the  night  before  they 
are  married.  Vera  has  not  yet  attained  the  age  or  expe- 
rience that  gives  us  "  white  nights  " — those  long,  blank,  aw- 
ful, sleepless  hours  of  darkness,  when  the  rest  of  creation 
snores,  and  we  alone  lie  with  aching  eyeballs,  feverish,  toss- 
ing, nervous,  cross,  wondering  if  the  lagging  day  will  ever 
dawn.  It  is  her  wedding — her  wedding-day  !  Now  that  it 
is  here  she  cannot  quite  realize  it.  It  means  something 
more  than  she  knows  of  surely,  else  why  do  all  girls,  hero- 
ines or  not,  look  upon  it  as  the  one  grand  epoch  of  their 
lives,  the  pivot  ui)on  which  their  whole  future  existence  is  to 
turn. 

"  I  am  such  a  little  fool,"  the  girl  thinks,  despondently, 
"  I  don't  know  anything.  I  wonder  what  Captain  Dick  can 
see  in  me.  I  am  not  fit  to  be  anybody's  wife,  nuich  less  his. 
He  is  so  learned,  so  clever,  so  good,  he  knows  so  much  — 
what  would  lie  say  if  he  knew  I  never  did  a  sum  in  vulgar 
fractions  in  my  life,  and  couldn't  parse  two  sentences  to 
save  me.  I  think,  after  all,  I  am  glad  he  is  going  away  ;  it 
will  give  me  a  chance  to  get  over  being  such  an  awful  dunce. 
At  least  I  am   not  glad,  and   two  years  is  a  dreadful  time, 

but  still Oh  !  Dot,  isn't  it  just  the  heavenliest  morning, 

after  all  !  " 

"  After  all  ?  "  repeats  Dora,  coming  in.  "  Who  ever  ex- 
pected it  was  going  to  be  anything  else  ?  Good-morning, 
Mrs.  Ffrench — how  did  you  sleep  ?  " 


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184 


CAPTAIN  DICK'S    WEDDING. 


Vera  acknowledges  shamc-faccdly  that  she  never  slept 
better  in  her  life,  and  intiuires  the  time. 

'*'  Nearly  six,"  Dora  says,  looking  at  her  pretty  watch. 
You  must  not  think  of  dressing  before  ten.  As  your  hair 
looks  rather  better  uncombed  than  combed,  your  toilet  need 
not  take  long.  Doing  one's  hair  is  always  the  worst.  You 
shall  have  breakfast  up  here.  I  will  breakfast  with  you  if 
you  like — then  yui  can  take  your  bath,  and  after  that  I  will 
dress  you.  As  we  do  not  start  for  church  until  nearly  eleven 
there  is  time  and  to  spare." 

*M  wish  1  could  go  out,"  says  Vera,  looking  wistfully 
down  to  where  Nero  stands  on  the  lawn,  looking  wistfully 
up,  and  wondering  why  his  mistress  does  not  come  for  her 
matutinal  game  of  romps  ;  "and  look  at  poor  Nero.  I  de- 
clare if  he  isn't  watching  my  window.  Just  one  race,  Dot — 
no  one  neeil  know." 

But  Dora  will  not  hear  of  it.  Vera  is  to  understand  that 
her  romping  days  are  over.  "  Resi)ectable  married  women 
(by  the  way,  I  wonder  why  married  women*  are  always  stig- 
mntized  respectable)  do  not  as  a  rule  get  up  at  five  in  the 
morning,  and  go  scami)ering  over  the  country  with  the 
house-dog.  We  are  going  to  change  all  that,  and  for  the 
time  to  come  Mrs.  1^.  C.  Ffrench  is  to  behave  herself^ 
Then  Dora  goes,  for  she  has  very  much  to  do  this  morning, 
and  hides  an  anxious  heart  under  her  tight  French  corsets. 
There  is  the  sour  and  surly  Harriet  to  conciliate,  if  she  can  ; 
there  is  Mrs.  Charlton  to  keep  an  eye  on,  for  Mrs.  Charlton 
looked  dangerous  last  night  ;  there  is  Mr.  Charlton  to  string 
up  to  concert  pitch,  and  be  put  in  a  proper  frame  of  mind 
to  meet  this  contumacious  step-son.  Vera  must  be  kept 
prisoner  in  her  room,  partly  because  it  is  the  proper  thing  to 
do,  and  partly  because  there  is  no  trusting  her  in  the  com- 
pany of  Mrs.  Charlton.  Impossible  to  tell  what  that  vicious 
old  harridan  may  not  venomously  Hash  out,  and  if  W-ra  only 
knows  the   truth,  or  half  the  truth,  silly,  and  childish,  and 


CAPTAIN  DICK'S   WEDDING. 


185 


uninformed  as  she  is,  Dora  knows  that  all  hope  of  a  wedding 
to  day  will  be  at  an  end.  Vera  is  woman  enough  for  this, 
ahhou;];h  she  has  hardly  outgrown  hoops  and  skipping-ropes, 
therefore  Dora  locks  her  sister  coolly  in  her  chamber,  and 
carries  off  the  key.  After  half-past  eleven  Mrs.  Charlton 
may  say  what  she  i)leases,  the  ceremony  once  safely  over, 
and  tliough  she  talks  until  crack  o'  doom,  she  will  not  talk 
the  ring  off  Vera  Ffrench's  finger. 

Breakfast  comes.  Mrs.  Charlton  comes.  Dangerous! — 
no  need  to  look  twice  to  see  that.  If  it  is  in  her  i)ower  to 
do  mischief  to  day,  she  will  do  it.  Dora  stands  for  a  second 
and  eyes  her  coolly,  steadily,  unflinchingly;  the  elder  woman 
returns  the  gaze  with  eyes  that  gleam  like  dull  stones.  It 
is  the  look  of  two  well-matched  duellists  just  ha^orc  en  garc/c 
is  cried.  So  fiir  Nfiss  Lightwood  has  had  the  best  of  it,  but 
the  wheel  goes  round,  and  she  who  is  on  top  at  nine  in  the 
morning  may  be  at  the  bottom  by  nine  at  night.  Mrs. 
Charlton  smiles,  a  slow,  cruel,  unsmiling  smile. 

"Is  not  our  bride  coming  to  breakfast,  Dora,  my  dear," 
she  asks. 

"  IJrides  generally  breakfast  in  their  own  room,  Mrs. 
Charlton.  \Vhen  one  has  had  nothing  to  do  with  brides  and 
bridals  for  half  a  century,  one  naturally  forgets.  You  ac- 
company us  to  church,  I  su])pose  ?  " 

"  I  will  be  in  at  the  death,  my  dear.  Ha !  ha  !  Eleven  I 
think  you  said?  My  poor  old  gray  silk  will  have  to  do. 
And  the  happy  man  " — another  spectral  ha  !  ha!  here — "at 
what  hour  are  we  to  look  for  him  ?  " 

"It  is  not  necessary  that  you  should  look  for  him  at  any 
hour,  Mrs.  Charlton.  Pray  don't  give  yourself  that  trouble. 
Young  men  are  so  ungrateful,  and  do  so  cordially  hate  to 
have  well-meaning,  elderly  ladies  look  out  for  them.  Ciood- 
niorning,  Mr.  Charlton.  We  are  before  you,  you  see.  I 
hope  you  are  feeling  quite  well,  sir  ?  " 

"Pretty  well,  my  dear,  pretty  well,"  Mr.  Charlton  answers, 


|! 


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186 


CAPTAIN  DICK'S    WEDDING. 


iliiiriedly.  "  Oood morning,  ma'am.  Tea  this  morning, 
Dora,  my  dear  ;  coft'ec  makes  my  liand  shaky.  How  is  the 
neiualgia,  Mrs.  Charlton?" 

"The  neuralgia  is  very  much  better,  Mr.  Charlton.  I 
trust  you  feel  no  twinges  of  your  old  enemy,  the  gout  ?  It 
would  be  such  a  i)ity  if  you  could  not  go  to  church  this 
morning  and  give  away  the  bride.  Our  dear  Miss  I.ight- 
wood,  who  can  do  almost  anything,  can  hardly  do  that.  You 
see  1  am  informed  of  the  happy  event.  The  notice  was 
short,  but  among  relatives,  and  for  so  strictly  i)rivate  an 
affair,  longer  was  not  needed.  And  i)oor  Captain  Ffrench 
is  really  going  to  i)ay  the  penalty  of  that  rash  child's  impru- 
dence after  all !     Dear  !  dear  !  dear  !  " 

"  How  grateful  Cajtain  Ffrench  would  be  for  your  sympa- 
thy, to  be  sure  !  "  says  Dora,  mockingly.  "  Such  a  pity  he 
is  not  here  to  hear  it  !  So  great  a  favorite  as  you  are  of  his, 
too  !  I  should  think,  now,  you  are  the  sort  of  elderly  lady 
young  men  \\o\\\^alioays  be  fond  of.  And  that  reminds  me. 
Do  you  happen  to  know  a  young  gentleman  by  the  name  of 
Krncst,  Mrs.  Charlton?" 

Mrs.  Charlton  looks  across  at  her,  murder  in  her  eye. 
It  is  vulgar,  it  is  lowering  herself  in  the  eyes  of  her  host, 
Dora  feels,  this  war  of  words,  but  for  the  life  of  her  she  can- 
not help  hitting  back. 

"  I  hai^e  known  a  young  gentleman  by  the  name  of  Ernest, 
Miss  Lightwood.     May  I  ask  his  other  name  ?  " 

But  Dora  only  smiles — a  smile  that  has  a  volume  of  mean- 
ing. 

"He  is  a  very  dear  friend  of  Nelly's,  is  he  not?"  she 
asks.  "  I  wonder  why  he  did  not  come  to  the  house  when 
he  called  upon  her  instead  of " 

Mrs.  Charlton  lays  down  her  knife  and  fork,  and  her  face 
turns  to  a  leaden  lividness. 

"  lUit,  there  !  "  cries  Dora  ;  "  perhaps  I  am  indiscreet.  I 
iiave  no  business  to  betray  poor,  dear  Nelly's  secrets.     No, 


L 


CAPTAliV  DICK'S    WEDDING. 


187 


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ATrs.  Charlton,  I  positively  decline  to  say  another  word. 
My  overhearinL?  was  purest  accident.  I  came  upon  them 
one  night  by  chance.  Only" — and  here  she  looks  steailily 
across  at  the  finious  face  before  her — '*  I  wouldn't  say  too 
much  about  Vera's  imprudence  if  I  were  you.  V^era  is  a 
child  of  sixteen,  and  her  im|)rudence  was  unpremeditated. 
If  she  were  three  and  twenty,  and  made  and  kept  assignations 
b>  night  and  by  stealth  down  there  in  the  grounds  witii  clan- 
desli;ie  lovers,  it  would  be  another  thing.  Mr.  Charlton,  I 
really  must  beg  )our  pardon  for  this.  It  is  in  atrocious  taste, 
I  know,  niul  makes  you  horribly  uncomfortable,  but  it  is 
forced  upon  me.  1  wish  to  say  no  more — if  1  am  permitted 
to  keep  my  own  counsel." 

She  rises  abruptly,  and  quits  the  room,  and  ^^r.  Charlton, 
with  a  hastily  nuittered  apology,  and  in  abject  terror,  follows 
her  example.  And  if  Mrs.  Charlton  could  drop  an  ounce  or 
so  of  prussic  acid  in  the  wine  Miss  Lightwood  expects  to 
drink  when  next  she  sits  at  table,  she  has  all  the  good  will 
in  the  world  at  this  moment  to  do  it. 

There  is  no  more  time  for  recrimination  •,  it  is  half-past 
nine.  Dora  hastens  up  to  make  her  own  toilet,  and  makes  it 
more  exi)editiously  than  she  ever  dressed  en  ij^nifuie  tcnue 
before.  After  all  it  is  simple — a  pale  pink  silk,  an  elaborate 
coitfure,  with  orange  Howers  and  pale  roses.  Her  resolute 
little  hands  shu'  e  as  she  fastens  buttons  and  hair-i)ins.  Her 
encounter  with  m"  enemy  has  excited  her  ;  she  has  given 
and  expects  no  quarter.     If  the  old  wretch  waylays    Dick 

Ffrench,  and  gets  him   all  to  herself  for  ten  minutes . 

Dora  sets  her  teeth.  Let  her  try  it !  Ffrench  is  not  the 
man  to  listen  to  innuendoes  ;  Dora  knows  that  from  mor- 
tifying experience  ;  his  rebuff  will  be  short  and  curt  enough. 
It  is  Vera  she  is  afraid  of.  Vera  must  not  be  left  a  moment 
unguarded  until  all  is  over. 

Vera  is  roaming  about  her  room,  restless,  fidgety,  growing 
feverish  and  excited  in  turn.     How  slowly  the  moments  drag. 


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She  is  surprised  to  find  she  cannot  eat.  Sleep  has  been  her 
faithful  friend,  but  ajipetite  has  deserted  her.  What  does 
Dot  mean  by  locking  her  up  ?  She  is  not  going  to  run 
away.  What  did  Mrs.  Charlton  mean  by  calling  Captain 
Dick  a  fool  yesterday  ? — "  the  greatest  fool  under  heaven  !  " 
Was  it  because  he  was  going  to  marry  her  I  Dot  says  it  is 
pure  spite,  and  perhaps  it  is ;  she  certainly  did  want  him  for 
Eleanor.  How  odd  and  queer  it  will  seem  to  meet  Captain 
Dick  noiv.  Her  heart  beats  at  the  thought  of  it.  She  never 
felt  shy  of  him  before,  but  she  turns  hot  and  uncomfortable 
now  at  the  idea. 

Dora  comes  at  last,  and  dressing  begins.  Vera  watches 
her  with  interest,  wondering  to  see  how  pale  she  is,  and  how 
excited  her  eyes  look.  This  too  ends,  and  it  is  Vera's  turn. 
Dora  does  everything.  With  deft,  skilled  fingers  she  makes 
the  most  of  the  curly  crop,  and  the  soft,  shining  rings  lie 
close  about  the  small,  shapely  head.  The  trained  white  silk 
is  on,  and  buttoned  up  ;  a  bouquet  of  sweet  white  blossoms, 
all  dewy  and  fresh,  is  fastened  in  the  corsage  ;  the  pearls  are 
clasped,  those  lovely  moonlight  "congealed  tears;"  the  ear- 
rings are  going  in,  when  "  low  on  the  sand,  and  loud  on  the 
stone,"  there  comes  the  quick  crash  of  carriage  wheels. 

Dora  stops  in  her  work  ;  Vera  seizes  the  table,  and  for 
one  giddy,  strange  moment,  the  room,  the  whole  world, 
swims  round  in  mist.  She  does  not  know  why,  but  it  gives 
her  a  shock,  a  shari),  blinding  shock,  and  every  pulse  seems 
to  stop  beating. 

"Here  they  are,"  cries  Dora  triumphantly;  "here  is  Dr. 
P^nglehart,  and  here  is  Richard  Ffrench.  Vera,  come  and 
peej)." 

VtwX.  Vera  does  not  stir.  Wondering,  Dora  turns,  and  sees 
her  all  in  a  second  gone  deathly  white. 

"  (rood  heavens  !  she  is  going  to  faint  !  Why,  you  shock- 
ing little  idiot !  Here,  drink  this  !  What  on  earth  is  the 
matter  with  you  ?  " 


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CAPTAIN  DICK'S    WEDDING. 


189 


for 


"  I — don't — know.  It  was  so  sudden.  Oh  !  Dora,  I  won- 
der if  he  is  glad." 

"Cilad?" 

"  Ghid —happy  that  it  is  his  wedding  day.  Oh!  I  am 
afraid,  I  am  afraid  I  Now  that  it  is  iiere — 1  don't  know  why, 
it  seems  so  strange,  so  unreal,  so  aivful/  Are  you  sure — 
sure,  mind — that  there  is  no  mistake,  that  he  really  and 
truly  wants  me  to  marry  him  ?  " 

Dora  stares  at  her,  amaze,  anger,  consternation  in  her 
face. 

"  Vera,"  she  says,  "  I  always  knew  you  were  a  little  fool, 
but  that  you  were  stick  a  little  fool,  I  never  knew  until  to- 
day. Why,  you  unparalleled  goose,  did  you  not  get  his  letter  ? 
has  Mr.  Charlton  not  talked  to  you  ?  is  he  not  here  now  ? 
And  yet  to  go  at  the  last  moment " 

"  I  won't  say  another  word,"  Vera  says,  humbly.  "Dot, 
how  does  he  look  ?  " 

"  Oh  ! — like  an  unfledged  arch-angel  of  course  !  big  and 
brown,  and  solenm  as  an  owl.  I  foresee  we  are  to  have  a 
deadly — lively  wedding — Mrs.  Charlton  for  the  tete  de  niori, 
and  the  bridegroom  for  the  marble  guest.  Now  draw  on 
your  gloves,  and  let  us  go  down.  There  is  Mr.  Charlton 
tapi)ing  at  the  door,  and  it  is  ten  minutes  of  eleven." 

"Shall — shall  I  not  see  him  except  before  everybody  ?  " 
stammers  Vera.  Her  hands  feel  cold  and  shaky,  her  voice 
trembles,  she  forgets  even  to  look  at  the  glass. 

"  No  !"  shari)ly.  "  What  need  ?  you  have  all  the  rest  of 
your  life  to  look  at  him.  Whatever  you  want  to  say  must 
keep  until  after  he  comes  back  from  Honduras.  Here,  come 
on,  1  don't  know  what  makes  me  so  nervous  this  morning. 
Weddings  are  always  nervous  sort  of  things  I  supi)ose. 
Come." 

Mr.  Charlton  is  waiting,  he  draws  the  gloved  hand  of  the 
little  brown  bride  through  his  arm,  with  a  reassuring  smile. 
And  thus  they  are  down-stairs — Vera  feels  that  she  is  walk- 


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CAPTAIN  DICK'S    WEDDING. 


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ing  in  her  sleep — and  in  the  drawing  room,  where  two  gen* 
tlemen  stand.  A  mist  is  before  her  eyes,  she  cHngs  flist  to 
the  protecting  arm,  and  through  that  mist  sees  her  hero  ap- 
proach. She  does  not  look  up,  in  all  her  bright  life  she  has 
never  felt  so  shy,  and  frightened,  and  ([ueer— the  beating  of 
her  heart  seems  alone  enough  to  stifle  her.  One  desire,  one 
wild,  desperate,  desire,  she  is  conscious  of — to  run  away  from 
them  all,  and   never  stop  until  she  reaches  New  York.     A 

•  •  •  »  • 

smile  is  breaking  up  the  gravity  of  Captaui  Dick's  face — he 
holds  out  his  hand. 

*'  Vera  !  "  he  says.  At  his  voice  it  all  clears  away,  and  she 
looks  up.  It  is  the  old  pleasant,  half  (juizzical  look,  she 
knows  so  well,  and  it  is  the  dear,  handsome,  familiar,  smiling 
face  that  bends  down.  She  has  no  time  to  speak,  for  Mr. 
Charlton  is  introducing  Dr.  P2nglehart,  wjio  looks  at  her  with 
keen,  steely,  searching  eyes.  The  keen,  steely  glance  ends 
in  a  smile,  half-puzzled,  half-amused,  with  an  underlying 
touch  of  sarcasm,  and  then  he  makes  a  courtly  bow.  Then 
he  is  presented  to  Dora,  then  to  Mrs.  Charlton,  and  then — 
still  in  a  somnambulistic  state,  Vera  finds  herself  in  the  car- 
riage and  on  the  way  to  church.  Not  a  word  has  been 
exchanged  between  her  and  Captain  Dick  ;  he  has  spoken 
her  name,  given  her  a  friendly  look,  and  a  warm  hand-clasp, 
and  is  following  after.  Mr.  Charlton,  by  her  side,  is  recalling, 
in  a  perturbed  way,  that  Dora  and  Mrs.  Charlton  are  shut  up 
together,  and  he  wonders  helplessly  if  they  will  fight.  If  it 
ever  comes  to  blows,  Mrs.  Charlton  will  have  the  best  of  it  ! 
Now  they  are  whirling  through  St.  Ann's,  in  a  cloud  of  white 
dust,  that  necessitates  closed  windows,  and  more  slowly  up 
the  sloping  hill,  crowned  with  a  humble  little  wooden  church, 
the  "  sign  of  hope  to  man"  glittering  from  the  spire.  Now 
they  have  stopped — not  a  creature  is  to  be  seen,  and  now 
they  are  out  and  going  up  the  nave,  and  the  candles  are  lit 
on  the  altar,  and  in  a  moment  Father  Darner  appears,  vested 
with  a  little  white  and  red  acolyte  following.     Oh  !  how 


CAPTAIN  DICK'S    WEDDING. 


191 


strange,  how  solemn  it  all  is  !  She  trembles,  she  is  cold  and 
white,  her  eyes  rest  on  the  priest  with  a  dilated,  unnatural 
look.  "  Richard,  wilt  thou  take  Veronica,  here  present,  for 
thy  lawful  wife,  according  to  the  rite  of  our  holy  Mother,  the 
church  ?  "  She  turns  upon  him  a  startled  glance — if  he  were 
to  respond,  "  No,  father — certainly  not,"  it  would  not  sur- 
prise her  in  the  least.  But  he  answers  instead,  "  I  will," 
and  then  Father  Damer  turns  to  her,  and  asks  the  same, 
and  Dora  has  to  give  her  an  unseen  poke  before  she  remem- 
bers it  is  her  turn  to  say  "  I  will."  And  then  her  long  five- 
button  glove  is  drawn  off,  and  Mr.  Charlton  gives  her  away, 
and  with  her  hand  clasped  fast  in  his,  Richard  Ffrench's  deep 
voice  is  saying  : 

"  I,  Richard,  take  thee,  Veronica,  to  be  my  wedded  wife, 
to  have  and  to  hold,  from  this  day  forward,  for  better,  for 
Avorse,  for  richer,  for  poorer,  in  sickness  and  in  health,  till 
death  do  us  part,  if  holy  church  will  it  permit ;  and  thereto  I 
plight  thee  my  troth." 

And  now  the  ring  is  blessed,  and  on,  and  Father  Damer  is 
reading  a  long  Latin  pra}'er,  and  once,  before  it  ends,  she 
steals  a  glance  at  the  bridegroom.  How  grave  he  is— but 
beyond  that  earnest  giavi*:y  she  can  read  nothing.  He  has 
taken  her,  she  him — oh  !  how  gladly — a  thousand,  thousand 
times,  for  life  and  death,  and  beyond  death  if  she  may  ! 
Her  heart  is  full  of  love,  of  joy,  of  thankfulness.  In  all  the 
world  there  is  no  one  like  him,  and  he  is  hers,  her  very  own 
for  all  time  !  The  last  blessing  is  given — it  is  all  over,  they 
are  man  and  wife.  Some  thought  brings  a  sudden  rush  of 
tears  to  her  eyes ;  she  lifts  them  to  his,  and  meets  the 
strangest  glance  in  return  !  She  does  not  understand  it — is  it 
sorrow — is  it  passionate  regret  ?  Surely  not — it  passes  in 
that  glance,  and  they  are  in  the  vestry,  signing  the  register, 
and  Dot  has  kissed  her  with  shining,  triumphant  eyes,  and 
Father  Damer  has  shaken  hands  smilingly,  and  wished  her  a 
long  and  happy  married   life.     He   has  been  invited  to  the 


|- 


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192 


CAPTAIN  DrChTS    WEDDING. 


wedding  feast,  but  duty  calls  him  elsewhere  and  he  cannot 
come.  And  tins,  too,  is  over,  and  they  are  out  of  the  church 
and  hack  in  the  carriages,  and  it  is  her  husband  who  is  be- 
side her.  They  Hash  back  over  the  same  dusty  road,  the 
same  sleepy  streets — the  world  is  the  same,  yet  everything  is 
changed.  She  does  not  spea.k,  she  is  afraid  to  si)eak,  afraid 
of  him  as  he  sits  here,  so  silent,  so  thoughthd,  so  changed. 
What  is  he  thinking  of?  and  how  little  is  he  like  her  Captain 
Dick  !  He  was  never  grave,  and  mute,  and  pre-occupied 
like  this.  They  are  actually  half-way  home  before  he  speaks 
one  word.  Then  he  takes  the  little  dark  hand,  the  left,  and 
looks  at  the  shining  hoop. 

"  It  is  the  smallest  1  could  get,  but  it  is  too  large.  Vera. 
What  a  i)retty  little  hand  you  have — 1  never  noticed  before. 
So  childish  a  hand,  too,  to  wear  a  wedding  ring  !  " 

Is  it  a  sigh  she  hears,  a  sigh  smothered  ?  She  looks  up 
quickly,  he  is  smiling,  but  only  his  mouth,  his  eyes  look 
grave. 

"  You  are  not  sorry  ?  "  she  says,  wistfully. 

"  Sorry,  dear  ?  Why  should  I  be  ?  1  was  always  fond  of 
my  little  Vera.  Have  you  been  talking  to  Mr.  Charlton  ? 
Has  he  told  you  of  our  arrangements  ?  " 

"  1  am  to  stay,  and  go  to  school,  or  have  a  governess.  I 
need  it  surely, '  Vera  answers,  slowly.  "  I  mean  to  study 
very  hard,  Captain  Dick,  so  that  you  may  not  be  ashamed 
of  me  when — when  you  come  back." 

*'  1  could  never  be  ashamed  of  you.  All  the  same,  study 
hard — you  have  four  good  years  yet  before  you  are  a 
woman." 

*'  Are  you  going  to  be  away  four  years  ?  "  she  asks,  a  little 
tremor  in  the  shy  voice,  a  startled  glance  in  the  brown  eyes 
— "  four  long  years  ?  " 

'*  Who  knows  ?  "  he  says,  with  an  impatient  sigh,  and  the 
eyes  that  look  away  from  her  are  full  of  pain.  *'  Not  I. 
Very  likely  not,  but  in  any  case  you  are  to  write  to  me,  re- 


CAPTAIN  DICK'S    WEDDING. 


193 


member— tluit  is  an  old  compact  you  know,  little  Vera,  and 
>vhenever  I  chance  to  be  near  a  jjost  town,  I  will  drop  you  a 
line.  Grow  up,  study  hard,  write  me  long  letters,  be  as 
happy  as  a  queen— that  is  to  be  the  progrannne  until  my 
return." 

"  And  then  ?  "  the  dark,  solemn  uplifted  eyes  ask.     But 
she  answers  not,  she  does  not  get  on  with  Captain  Dick  to- 
day.    That  odd,  unpleasant  feeling  of  shyness  will  not  be 
shaken  off.     Why  is  his  tone  so  serious  ?     Wiiy  have  his  eyes 
that  sad,  dark,  troubled  look,  a  dreamy  far  away  look  too,  as 
if  they  saw  ever  so  far  off,  beyond  and  above  her  poor  little 
schoolgirl  life.      She  has  never  before  felt  so  utterly  apart 
from  him,  so  nearly  afraid  of  him,  so  little  at  her  ease  with  him, 
as  on  this  morning  that  has  made  her  his  wife.     They  have 
taken  scores  of  tete-d-tek  drives  before,  and  their  hajjpy  young 
laughter  has  rung  out  in  unison  ;  but  Captain  Dick  looks  at 
this  moment  as  if  he  had  never  laughed  in  his  life,  and  never 
meant   to  begin.     Does  the  marriage   ceremony  affect   all 
gendemen  in  this  unpleasant  manner  ?     For  the  first  time  in 
her  life,  she  wishes  the  drive  with  Captain  Dick  would  come 
to  an  end.     She  has  her  wish,  they  are  going  up  the  avenue, 
they  are  at  the  door.     He  springs  out,  hands  her  down,  and 
draws  her  gloved  hand  under  his  arm. 

"ATy  wife  !  "  he  says,  and  for  the  first  time  the  old  smile 
flashes  forth  for  a  second.  "  That  has  an  odd  sound,  has  it 
not,  Dona  Vera  ?  " 


i 


.ji 


M  1 


194 


POST-NUPTIAL. 


:;:f 


CHAPTER  XX. 


POST-NUPTIAL. 


ARRIET  oF  the  flat  figure  and  sour  temper  lias  at 
least  the  merit  of  being  competent  to  tlie  occasion, 
and  the  breakfast  that  awaits  the  bridal  party  is 
above  reproach.  But  neither  the  api)etite  nor  the  S[)irits  of 
the  company  do  any  sort  of  justice  to  it.  A  cloud  hangs  over 
the  festive  board,  and  though  the  feast  is  set,  and  the  guests 
have  met,  there  is  little  eaten  and  less  said.  Mr.  Charlton,  for 
the  first  time  in  his  hosi)itable  life,  at  the  head  of  his  own  board, 
is  neither  social  nor  genial — his  brows  are  knit,  his  glance  is 
gloomy,  his  mouth  looks  stern.  The  bridegroom  retains  the 
silence  and  gravity  that  have  wrapped  him  as  a  mantle  since 
his  coming.  Once  or  twice,  it  is  true,  he  makes  an  effort  to 
rally,  but  it  is  so  palpably  an  effort  that  it  is  rather  a  relief 
when  he  relapses.  Mrs.  Charlton  does  not  speak  one  sin- 
gle word,  except  when  once  or  twice  directly  addressed  by 
courteous  Dr.  Englehart — no  one  else  has  the  courage  to 
attempt  it.  It  would  seem  as  though  she  had  entered  into  a 
compact  with  herself  to  remain  dead  silent  until  an  opportu- 
nity occurs  of  s[)eaking  fatally  to  the  purpose.  At  least  this 
is  what  Dora  thinks — Dora  watching  her  furtively  and  inces- 
santly, and  determined  to  balk  her,  if  human  vigilance  can 
do  it.  It  is  up-hill  work  for  Miss  Lightwood  ;  she  is  the 
only  leaven  to  lighten  the  whole  mass,  and  she  comes  up  to 
time  nobly,  and  does  her  best.  The  one  wedding-guest 
seconds  her  efforts,  thinking  that  in  all  his  experience  of 
wedding-breakfasts,  this  one  stands  dismally  alone.  As  for 
the  poor,  little  bewildered  bride,  a  great  vague  terror  is  tak- 
ing possession  of  her.     Something  is  wrong,   something  is 


POST-NUPTIAL. 


195 


abnormal  and  out  of  the  common,  something  is  the  matter 
with  everybody.  Why  does  Captain  Dick  look  like  that, 
and  so  very  unlike  himself?  Why  is  he  so  quiet,  so  de- 
])ressed  ?  Wiuit  does  it  all  mean?  If  he  really  wislied  to 
marry  her,  what  business  has  he  to  look  unhai)|)y  about  it  ? 
and  if  he  did  )iot  wish  to  marry  her  why  has  he  done  it  ? 
Oh  !  if  she  were  not  so  stupid,  so  ignorant,  so  young  ! 
A\'hat  is  the  matter  with  them  all  ?  Peo[)le  drink  toasts,  and 
make  speeches  at  wedding-breakfasts,  she  has  always  under- 
stood, but  no  one  does  it  here.  Once,  Dr.  Knglehart,  with  a 
kindly  smile  at  the  pale,  startled  face,  proposes  health  and 
hai)piness  to  die  bride,  and  Ca[)tain  Dick  responds.  But  it 
is  only  a  flash  in  the  pan,  and  the  cloud  settles  again.  A 
slow  smile,  a  slow,  cruel,  "  crawling  "  sort  of  smile,  as  Dora 
names  it,  actually  crosses  the  grim  face  of  Mrs.  Charlton. 
The  deadly  oppression  that  hangs  over  the  party  is  as  "  nuts  " 
to  her,  in  her  present  venomous  mood. 

It  ends  at  last,  just  as  Vera  is  beginning  to  stifle,  and 
there  is  an  adjournment  to  the  drawing-room.  And  then, 
for  the  first  time  since  his  arrival,  Mr.  Charlton  goes  up  to 
his  step-son,  looks  him  in  the  face,  and  addresses  him. 

"  I  wish  you  to  come  with  me  to  my  study  for  a  moment, 
Captain  Ffrench,"  he  says,  stiffly;  "  1  will  not  detain  you 
but  a  very  brief  time." 

In  all  the  years  he  has  borne  it,  Mr.  Charlton  has  never 
called  him  by  his  military  title  before.  Dick  reddens  now, 
but  he  also  smiles  slightly. 

*'  I  am  at  your  service,  governor,"  he  says,  with  a  momen- 
tary return  to  his  old  cheery  manner,  "  for  as  long  a  time  as 
you  like." 

Dora,  standing  with  Dr.  Englehart,  sees  them  go — so,  too, 
does  Mrs.  Charlton.  She  also  sees  the  bride  escaping  from 
among  them,  and  flying  out  of  the  house  and  down  the  gar- 
den, regardless  of  damage  to  the  white  silk  train — the  apj^le 
of  her  eye  and  the  pride  of  her  heart  but  two  brief  hours 


'(!< 


I 


:)  !" 


U 


*'\ 


196 


POST-NUPTIAL. 


before.  She  sees  evcrytliing  and  bides  her  time.  That  red 
signal-lani|),  "  Dangerous,"  is  still  u|),  and  Dora  feels  that 
all  her  ablest  strategy  will  be  needed  to  out'uanacuvre  her 
here. 

Vera  n-akes  her  way  down  the  gravelled  paths  towards  a 
sununer-house  she  knows  of,  embowered  in  a  great  green 
tangle  of  grape-vine.  Fortunately  the  grass  was  rolled  only 
yesterday — it  has  not  rained  for  a  week,  so  the  bridal  silk 
takes  no  damage.  But  bridal  silks  and  sweeping  trains  have 
lost  their  charm  ;  once  more  the  world  is  hollow,  and  "  things 
are  not  what  they  seem." 

She  is  married  to  Captain  Dick,  all  fast  and  hrm  ;  here  is 
the  ring  shining  in  the  sunlight;  but  Captain  Dick  looks 
very  desperately  out  of  sorts  over  it.  What  is  the  matter? 
why  has  he  married  her  ?  She  sinks  down  dejectedly  on  a 
low  seat,  and  pushes  the  soft  dark  curls  off  her  face  with  a 
hoi)eless,  sorrowful  sigh.  Oh,  dear,  dear  1  his  going  away 
was  bad  enough,  but  this  is  a  thousand  times  worse.  And  if 
it  were  not  such  a  dense  mystery.  She  used  to  think  mys- 
teries nice,  and  for  that  matter  she  likes  them  still — in 
weekly  numbers  ;  but  for  everyday,  and  where  Captain  Dick 
is  concerned — no.  If  he  didn't  want  to,  why  did  he  ?  She 
never  asked  him,  his  step-father  never  asked  him — Dot  says 
so.  And  if  he  did  it  because  he  liked  her,  and  wished  to  of 
his  own  free  will,  why  is  he  so  sulky  (that  is  the  word  Vera 
applies  to  her  hero) — so  sulky  about  it  now  ?  It  is  not  like 
him,  and  he  used  to  seem  fond  of  her.  Vera  feels  despond- 
ently that  being  married  is  not  the  blissful  sort  of  thing  un- 
married people  make  it  out.  If  she  had  known  it  was  going 
to  be  like  this,  she  would  never  have  said  yes  ;  she  would 
have  seen  both  him  and  Dot  further,  first  !  There  is  some- 
thing wrong.  If  they  were  good  friends  as  they  used  to  be, 
she  would  go  and  ask  Captain  Dick  ;  but  he  is  unlike  him- 
self, and  she  is  in  awe  of  him.  Slow,  miserable,  disappointed 
tears  gather  in  the  forlorn  little  bride's  eyes,  and   she  wipes 


• 


f^ 


t};'f, 


POST-NUPTIAL. 


197 


them  away  gingerly  wilh  a  bit  of  handkerchief  that  cost 
thirty  dolhirs.  She  cannot  even  inchilgc  in  the  hixiiry  of  a 
good  cry  with  such  a  morsel  of  lace  and  lawn  as  this.  She 
feels  desolate  and  bereft,  very  much  as  Evangeline  may  when 
playing  hide  and  seek  wiili  the  runaway  Gabriel,  and  unable 
to  catcli  up  with  him. 

In  the  study,  a  very  Stiff,  and  frozen,  and  petrified  sort  of 
conversation  is  going  on.  Mr.  Charlton  stands  ominously 
erect  and  unbending  ;  Captain  Ffrench,  with  his  elbow  on 
the  chimney-piece,  confronting  him,  wears  about  as  unbride- 
groom-like  a  face  as  can  well  be  imagined.  After  all,  Vera's 
hero  is  very  mortal — like  most  heroes  in  i)rivate  life — he  feels 
just  at  this  moment  that  it  is  sufficiently  hard  to  have  been 
badgered  into  marrying  a  slip  of  a  school-girl,  who  may  grow 
up  into  a  frivolous  doll  like  her  sister,  without  being  lectured 
and  drawn  over  the  coals,  about  leaving  her,  as  Mr.  Charlton 
has  just  been  doing.  Good  Heavens  !  he  thinks,  despond- 
ently, what  else  is  there  to  do,  but  leave  her,  and  let  the 
child  grow  up  ?  What  would  he,  what  would  any  man  in  his 
senses  do  with  a  wife  of  sixteen,  and  the  education  and  ideas 
of  eleven  ? 

"  It  is  settled  then,"  Mr.  Charlton  is  saying  in  a  slow, 
harsh  sort  of  voice  ;  '*  this  is  your  ultimatum  ?  You  start  for 
Honduras  with  the  expedition  to-morrow,  and  leave  your 
wife  with  me  ?  It  would  be  a  pity  if  we  should  misunder- 
stand each  other  at  the  last.     You  positively  go  ?  " 

"  I  i)ositively  go,"  Dick  says,  doggedly.  "  As  for  leaving 
my  wife  with  you,  governor,  remember  she  is  a  wife  forced 
upon  me  by  you  and  Miss  Lightwood — not  one  of  my  own 
choosing.  She,  poor  child,  is  not  to  blame,  and  if  she  finds 
out  by  and  by  that  this  morning's  work  is  a  fatal  mistake,  I 
will  at  least  have  the  consolation  of  knowing  /never  asked 
her  to  make  the  sacrifice.  I  am  sorry  we  must  part  in 
anger  ;  you  have  been  so  generous  a  friend  and  father " 

Mr.  Charlton  waves  his  hand  in  angry  impatience. 


TT 


ii< 


Ni 


198 


POST-NUPTIAL. 


**Wc  will  (Iroj)  all  that,  if  you  please.  Protestations  of 
gratitude  wii^h  litth?  against  ungrateful  actions,  (lo,  if  you 
will,  hut  understand  this — all  testamentary  intentions  1  have 
ever  had  in  your  favor  end  with  your  going." 

"  You  mentioned  that  before,  you  know,  governor,"  Dick 
sa)s,  coolly.  "It  is  not  necessary  to  enter  into  it  again. 
Leave  your  fortune  to  whom  you  please  ;  it  is  entirely  besiilc 
the  (juestion  of  my  regret  at  your  displeasure.  And  now  if 
everything  is  said,  with  your  permission  1  will  rejcjin  I'-ngle- 
liart  and  the  ladies.  'I'he  up  train  leaves  St.  Ann's  at  five  ; 
we  must  catch  it.     It   s  half-past  three  now." 

*'  1  have  no  more  to  say,"  the  elder  man  responds,  in 
cold,  intense  wrath  ;  "  do  not  let  me  detain  you  from  your 
friend.     \Ve  understand  each  other  thoroughly  now." 

Dick  holds  out  his  hand. 

"Come,  governor,''  he  says,  "relax  a  little,  won't  you? 
Shake  hands  at  least.  This  is  a  little  too  bad,  after  all  that 
is  past  and  gone." 

IJut  Mr.  Charlton  turns  inflexibly  away. 

*'  You  have  chosen  your  path,  and  here  we  part  forever. 
We  will  have  no  hypocritical  pretence  of  friendship  or  re- 
gret.    We  part  here ;  all  is  said  in  that." 

A  Jiioment  later,  and  Captain  Ffrench  is  scanning  the 
group  in  the  drawing-room.  Dr.  Englehart  has  prevailed 
upon  Miss  Lightwood  to  lift  the  general  despondency  a  little 
by  singing  for  him.  Dick  Ffrench  being  safely  closeted  with 
his  step-father,  Vera  having  isolated  herself  from  human 
ken,  for  the  time  being,  Miss  I.ightwood  feels  she  may  relax 
her  surveillance  thus  far.  Consequently,  when  the  bride- 
groom reconnoitres,  she  is  in  the  midst  of  an  Italian  song, 
and  Vera  is  nowhere  visible.  But  Mrs.  Charlton  is  exceed- 
ingly visible,  and  on  the  watch.  She  rises  and  ai)proaches 
him. 

"Captain  Ffrench,"  she  says,  quickly,  "will  you  let 
me   speak   to  you  one   moment  ?     I   will   not  detain  you 


I 


^p 


J 


POSTNUPTIAL, 


199 


longer,  and  Vera  is  somewhere  out  there,  if  you  want  to  find 
her." 

Captain  Dick  looks  surprised  and  a  trifle  bored.  This  is 
the  second  time  to-day  he  has  been  privately  interviewed, 
and  informed  he  will  not  be  detained  a  moment.  He  only 
hopes  the  coming  it':tc'-ii-tcte  may  be  less  personal  and  un- 
pleasant than  the  past.  He  bows  silently  and  follows,  glan- 
cing at  her  askance  in  some  distrust.  It  has  already  been 
mentioned  that  Captain  Ffrench  is  abnormally  afraid  of  this 
stout  matron,  and  the  eye  of  stone  and  brow  of  malignity 
look  more  stony  and  malignant  at  this  moment  than  lie  has 
ever  seen  them.  Some  vcngeanceful  pur[)ose  is  in  her  mind, 
something  deucedly  uncomfortable  is  coming,  he  feels,  and 
he  thrusts  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  prei)ares  himself 
darkly  for  the  worst.  She  has  a  fixed  place  as  well  as  pur- 
pose in  view,  it  seems  ;  the  place  is  close  to  a  small,  rustic 
sunuiierhouse,  crowned  with  a  grapery.  Close  to  this  she 
takes  her  stand,  and  faces  him. 

"  Now  for  it  I  "  thinks  the  badgered  bridegroom,  with  an 
inward  groan. 

"  I  cannot  let  you  go,  Captain  Ffrench,"  begins  Afrs. 
Charlton,  in  a  strident  voice,  which  he  can  feel  turning  his 
skin  to  "goose  flesh"  with  its  rasping  vibration — "  I  cannot 
let  you  go  without  speaking  one  word.  Your  step-father  is 
so  completely  under  the  control  of  Dora  Lightwood — so 
utterly  infatuated  with  her,  that  it  is  worse  than  useless  to 
sj^eak  to  him.  I  cannot  let  you  go,  1  say,  without  lifting 
my  voice  against  this  shocking  plot  of  which  you  are  the 
victim." 

"What  shocking  plot,  Mrs.  Charlton?"  asks  Captain 
Dick,  taking  an  easy  position  against  the  summer-house,  and 
making  himself  as  comfortable  as  maybe  under  the  circum- 
stances. 

"  This  plot  of  Dora  Lightwood' s,  which  has  just  ended  in 
your  marriage.     Is  it  possible — can  it  be  possible — that  you 


•<%': 


k 


200 


POST-NUPTIAL. 


.\\ 


hi  1  i 


do  not  see  through  it?  Do  you  not  know  that  it  was  she 
who  told  that  silly  child,  Vera,  of  your  accident — that  it  was 
she  who  sent  her  to  Sliaddeck  Light — that  she  refused  to  go 
in  search  of  her  that  night,  although  urged  to  do  so  by  Mr. 
Charlton  ?  It  was  all,  with  what  has  followed,  a  precon- 
certed plot.  And  Vera  was  in  it.  Silly  she  is,  childisli  she 
is,  or  pretends  to  be,  but  she  was  crafty  enough  for  that. 
You  are  a  rich  man's  heir.  Charlton  is  a  home  to  be  de- 
sired. They  both  are  working  girls  without  a  penny,  and  I 
say  that  Vera  went  to  Shaddeck  Light  that  night  with  the 
deliberate  intention  of  remaining,  and  of  forcing  you  to  mar- 
ry her — as  you  have  done." 

*'And  I  say,"  says  Dick  Ffrench  deliberately,  "it  is  a 
d d  lie." 

Her  words  have  poured  forth  so  vehemently,  he  has  been 
so  taken  by  surprise,  that  up  to  this  time  he  has  had  no 
chance  to  speak.     But  at  this  she  recoils. 

*'  Sir  !  "  she  furiously  exclaims. 

"  A  lie  !  "  repeats  Captain  Ffrench,  coolly,  '^  a  poisonous 
and  foul  lie.  You  will  excuse  very  strong  words,  Mrs. 
Charlton.  You  like  them,  and  use  them  yourself.  Vera 
Martinez  never  came  to  Shaddeck  Light  with  any  such  pur- 
pose, never  plotted  or  wished  to  marry  me.  So  far  as  she 
was  concerned,  the  whole  thing  was  sheer  accident.  As  for 
her  sister — but  perhaps  it  will  be  as  well  to  leave  Miss 
Lightwood's  name  out  of  the  question." 

Her  astonishment  and  rage  are  so  great,  that  they  keep 
her  for  the  mofiient  perfectly  speechless. 

Captain  Ffrench  eyes  her  steadily,  and  goes  on. 

*'  Supposing,  for  argument's  sake  though,  your  assertion 
to  be  true,  is  it  not  a  little  late  in  the  day,  my  dear  madam, 
for  you  to  come  forward  and  expose  the  plotters  ?  I  aui 
married  now,  your  revelations  will  not  unmarry  me.  And  if 
my  memory  holds  good,  you  were  the  first  and  strongest 
advocate  of  my  immediate  marriage  that  morning  at  Shad- 


•I 


POST-NUPTIAL. 


201 


deck — the  only  reparation  as  a  man  of  honor  I  could  make. 
Why  did  you  not  unbosom  yourself  of  all  this  on  that  occa- 
sion instead  ?  It  might  have  served  some  purpose  then — I 
confess  I  am  at  a  loss  to  see  wliat  purpose  it  is  to  serve 
now." 

"  Sir  !  "  she  cries,  "  is  this  my  thanks " 

"  Ladies  who  expose  nefarious  plots  never  require  any 
thanks,  do  they  ?  Virtue  is  its  own  reward,  is  it  not  ?  And 
before  you  say  any  more,  permit  me  to  set  you  right  on 
another  essenaal  point.  I  am  not  Mr.  Charlton's  heir. 
Miss  Lightwood  has  not  captured  a  rich  husband  for  her  sis- 
ter. As  to  Vera — God  bless  her — she  is  my  wife  remember 
— it  is  at  once  my  honor  and  my  duty  to  guard  her  reputa- 
tion against  slanderous  tongues.  You  will  do  me  the  favor 
not  to  repeat  this  very  remarkable  fabrication  again.  It  is 
difticult,  I  know,  to  refute  calumnies,  circulated  by  a  lady ; 
still " 

Mrs.  Charlton  turns  from  him,  baffled,  furious. 

"  It  is  the  truth  !  "  she  bursts  out,  "  and  you  know  it.  Say 
what  you  will,  Captain  Ffrench,  it  is  the  truth,  and  you  have 
been  trapped  so  easily  and  speedily  that  the  snare  was 
hardly  worth  the  ])ains  Dora  Lightwood  took.  V«ra  was 
fond  of  you  ;  she  made  no  secret  of  her  bold  attachment ; 
she  followed  you  like  your  shadow,  or  your  dog ;  she  was 
with  you  early  and  late ;  her  passion  was  patent  from  the 
first ;  she  went  to  Shaddeck  Light  with  the  fixed  resolu- 
tion of  staying  and  risking  all  consequences.  She  is 
your  wife,  as  you  say.  Yes,  and  I  wish  you  joy  of  your 
bargain  !  " 

She  turns  and  walks  away.  Captain  Ffrench  is  alone  and 
watches  her  out  of  sight.  What  is  he  to  do  ?  Knock  her 
down  ?  What  a  simi)le  and  beautifiil  solution  that  would  be 
if  she  were  a  man  ;  but  being  a  woman — may  the  demon  fly 
away  with  her  !  After  all  it  is  a  privilege  to  belong  to  the 
unfranchised  sex — one  can  use  such  fine,  strong,  nervous 
9* 


t-il 


' 


202 


POST-NUPTIAL. 


Pi* 


vom 


i  '!^ 


English  when  one  is  in  a  towering  rage,  and  feels  so  comfort- 
ably secure  of  not  getting  a  pair  of  black  eyes  for  it. 

]Uit  where  is  Vera  ? 

Captain  Dick  glances  about  him,  takes  out  his  watch,  and 
looks  at  the  hour.  It  is  four.  This  agreeable  conversation 
has  occupied  precisely  half  an  hour.  In  another  he  must  be 
en  route.  And  now  he  recalls  Vera's  v/isiful,  wondering 
face.  Poor  little  soul  !  he  thinks,  it  is  such  a  shame  to 
visit  this  chapter  of  accidents  on  her  head.  Whoever  is  to 
blame,  she  at  least  is  guiltless.  He  feels  remorseful — like  a 
brute — as  if  he  had  pushed  away  harshly  the  timid  overtures 
of  a  shrinking  child.  Mrs,  Charlton  has  said  she  is  some- 
where in  the  grounds. 

"Vera  !  "  he  calls,  and,  as  if  in  answer,  a  sob  comes  from 
behind  him.  He  turns  quickly,  parts  the  leaves  ;  the  next 
instant,  with  a  rush,  he  is  in  the  summer-house.  "  Vera  !  " 
he  cries.     •'  Great  Heaven  !  is  it  possible  ?  " 

He  is  inexpressibly  shocked.  For  she  is  hefe,  all  in  a 
white  heap  on  the  damp  floor,  the  wedding  robe  irretrievably 
ruined,  huddled  together  in  a  strange,  distorted  attitude  of 
pain.  Her  arms  are  on  the  seat,  her  head  laid  on  them  ; 
she  neither  moves  nor  looks  up. 

"  Vera !  ''  he  cries,  and  tr'es  to  lift  her  ;  "  Vera,  my  pet ! 
my  dear  little  Vera  !  " 

He  is  like  enough  the  Captain  Dick  of  other  days  now, 
but  Vera  is  past  all  seeing  or  caring.  She  writhes  away  out 
of  his  grasp  with  a  strength  he  wonders  at,  and  only  that 
dry,  sobbing  sound  answers  him. 

"  Vera  !  Vera  !  "  he  repeats,  in  an  agony ;  "  Vera,  look 
up  !  I  did  not  know — how  could  I  know  you  were  here  ! 
Vera,  lift  up  your  head  !  Good  Heaven  !  wliat  am  I  to 
say  ?     Vera  !  " 

"  Let  me  be  !  let  me  be  !  "  she  says,  in  a  smothered  voice, 
and  again  frees  herself.  "  Go  away.  Oh  !  go.  Do  not 
speak  to  me — do  not  touch  me.     Only  let  me  be." 


I     \ 


POST-NUPTIAL, 


203 


''But  I  cannot.     You  mustn't  stay  here.     It  is  damp,  and 

see — you  have    spoiled  your   i)rctty  clothes.      Vera — do 

there  is  a  good  child— get  up.  Look  at  this  mud  and  mould 
on  your  white  dress." 

"  1  wish,"  the  stifled  voice  says,  "  I  had  been  dead  before  I 
ever  put  it  on.     Oh  !  me.     Oh  !  me,  what  shall  1  do  ?  " 

The  choking  sobs  break  from  her,  in  a  wild,  hysterical  way, 
that  completely  unmans  him.  What  is  he  to  do  ?  She  has 
heard  every  word  the  vile-tongued  enemy  has  uttered. 

"Curse  her!"  he  thinks,  savagely;  "such  beldames 
ought  to  be  shot  !  Vera!"  hopelessly,  "  7t'/7/you  get  up  ; 
ivill  you  listen  to  me  ?  What  am  I  to  do  if  you  go  on  like 
this?" 

He  is  at  his  wit's  end.  Without  actual  force  it  is  impossi- 
ble to  lift  her,  and  he  cannot  bear  to  touch  her  roughly.  He 
i'  so  sorry  for  her,  and  he  knows  so  little  what  to  say.  If 
she  were  a  woman— if  she  were  Dora  or  Eleanor  and  could 
be  ^^ipealed  to  rationally — but  he  is  entirely  at  sea  with  Vera. 
He  feels  like  taking  her  on  his  knee,  and  soothing  her  with 
caresses  and  sugar  plums.  And  still  she  crouches  there,  all 
in  that  disordered  white  heap,  and  still  the  dry  muffled  sobs 
torture  his  ears. 

"  Vera,"  he  says  at  last,  in  desperation,  "  listen  to  me. 
It  is  after  four.  In  fifteen  minutes  Dr.  Englehart  will  be 
ready  to  depart,  and  will  expect  me  to  go  with  him.  But  I 
cannot  leave  you  like  this.  If  you  will  not  get  up,  and  lis- 
ten, I  will  go  back  to  the  house  for  your  sister,  and  my  friend 
must  return  to  the  city  alone." 

He  waits  for  a  moment.  He  has  touched  the  right  chord, 
the  sobs  cease,  and  with  a  great  effort  she  speaks. 

"  Oh  !  do  not,"  she  says  ;  "  do  not  call  Dot.  And  don't 
wait,  please  don't  !     Only  leave  me  alone — only  go  !  " 

"  I  will  never  go  and  leave  you  like  this,"  he  answers  reso- 
lutely. "  Stand  up,  and  let  me  speak  to  you,  or  I  will  do  as 
I  have  said." 


I:  i 


I      i 


204 


POST-NUPTIAL. 


' 


■  vm     ' 


i  1   i  :■!> 


^i-K:l 


She  rises  slowly,  shrinking  from  the  hand  that  helps  her. 
Her  head  is  drooping,  her  eyes  refuse  to  meet  his,  she  is 
frightfully  pale,  and  seems  to  creep  within  herself  as  she 
stands.  She  is  so  unlike  Vera,  bright,  laughing,  fearless, 
Vera,  that  for  a  moment  he  cannot  speak.  He  does  not  try 
to  touch  her — with  as  absolute  a  deference  as  he  could  pay 
to  a  queen,  he  stands  before  her,  and  tries  to  set  himself 
right.  It  is  all  Mrs.  Charlton's  malice  and  slander ;  he 
knows  it  is  utterly  false,  he  will  never  think  of  her  spiteful 
words  again.  Vera  must  have  heard  him  repudiate  all  her 
insinuations — he  knows  it  was  purest  accident  took  her  that 
evening  to  Shaddeck — there  is  no  one  in  the  world  he  cares 
for  as  he  cares  for  her.  FAcrything  it  is  possible  to  say  he 
says,  and  says  again.  Language  is,  after  all,  poor  and  bar- 
ren ;  he  grows  impatient  with  himself  as  he  talks,  almost  im- 
patient with  her.  For  she  stands  just  there,  so  still,  so  mute, 
so  downcast,  not  looking  at  him,  not  hearing  half  he  says,  it 
may  be — that  he  despairs. 

"  Vera,"  he  says,  *'  are  you  listening  ?  Why  will  you  not 
answer  ?  Wliy  will  you  no*,  look  at  me  ?  Why  do  you  stand 
like  this  ?  " 

'*  1  am  waiting  for  you  to  go,"  she  says,  wearily  ;  "  if  only 
you  would  go  !  " 

He  musf  go — some  one  is  calling  him,  is  calling  her.  The 
time  is  up. 

"  And  we  mu^t  part  like  this  !  Vera,  say  once,  once  only 
— you  do  not  blame  me  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  blame  you." 

"And  you  do  not  think  I  believe  that  old  harridan's  abom- 
inable lies  ?     Say  do  you  not !  " 

"  I  do  not." 

She  repeats  her  answers  like  an  automaton.  If  he  would 
only  go  ! 

"  And  you  will  write  to  me  ?  You  will  forget  this  ?  Good 
Heaven  !  how  much  I  want  to  say  to  you,  and  here  is  the 


. 


;l 


POST-NUPTIAL. 


205 


last  moment !     Good-by,   good-by !  they  are  coming.     Do 
not  let  them  see  you  yet." 

He  crushes  both  her  hands  a  second,  with  unconsciously 
cruel  force. 

"  Dear  little  Vera,  dear  little  pet,  dear  little  wife,  good- 
by  !  "  he  says,  and  is  gone. 

Dora  and  Dr.  Englehart  stand  just  without,  waiting.  Some- 
thing has  gone  wrong,  they  see  by  his  face.  No  questions 
are  asked.  Perhaps  Dora  guesses  ;  she  is  pale,  and  looks 
frightened. 

"Where  is  Vera  ?"  she  asks. 

"  I  have  just  said  good-by,"  he  answers,  hurriedly.  «'  Is 
all  ready,  Englehart?  Good-by,  Miss  Lightwood."  He 
holds  out  his  hand.     *'  Take  good  care  of  Vera." 

And  then  the  leave-taking  is  over,  and  half  dazed,  he  is 
being  driven  rapidly  out  of  the  Charlton  grounds,  and  away 
to  the  St.  Ann's  station. 

*  *  *  *  *  *         * 

Late  that  night  in  New  York,  Captain  Ffrench  writes  a 
letter.  Vera's  white  face  and  crushed  look  haunt  him  with 
a  presentiment  of  fear  for  the  future  he  cannot  shake  off. 
The  letter  begins  *'  My  dear  little  wife,"  and  is  as  gentle,  as 
tender,  as  hopeful,  as  warm  as  a  young  husband's  first  letter 
should  be.  It  is  long,  too,  and  reassures  her  again  and 
again  of  his  perfect  trust,  and  affection,  and  confidence  in 
her.  He  incloses  it  in  a  (ew  lines  to  Mr.  Charlton,  and  feels 
better  for  having  written  it.  Poor  little  Vera  !  but  she  will 
get  over  the  shock  in  a  day  or  two.  Dora  will  know  what 
to  do  with  her,  what  to  say  to  her  ;  she  will  forget  it  directly, 
and  be  all  right  again.  So,  when  to-morrow  comes,  and  they 
steam  gaily  away  down  the  harbor,  he  has  thrown  off  all  pre- 
sentiments and  nervous  apprehensions  on  Vera's  account,  and 
leans  over  the  bulwarks,  smoking,  glad  it  is  over,  glad  he  is 
off,  and  hoping — misanthropically  enough — he  may  not  see 
a  single  woman  to  speak  to  until  he  conies  back. 


1    '\ 


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1  ..- 

A     :i 


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n 

I- 


206 


"r//i!j    CT/JZ  /  LEFT  BEHIND  ME." 


An  excursion  steamer  floats  by  them,  and  gives  the  out- 
ward bound  three  cheers.  The  Hltle  boat  is  gay  with  H  igs 
and  streamers,  hidies  wave  their  handkerchiefs  from  the 
upper  deck,  and  the  band  plays.  As  it  chances,  the  air  is 
"The  Cxirl  I  Left  Behind  Me." 

Dr.  iMiglehart  looks  at  his  friend  and  laughs. 

"  Ap[)roi)riate,"  he  says.  "  Do  you  know,  Dick,  I  never 
said  good-by  to  your  little  bride,  after  all." 

Dick  I'Trench  sighs.  Poor  little  Vera  !  How  gay  this 
pleasure-party  seems.  Yonder  is  a  girl,  in  a  white  hat  and 
feather,  who  looks  something  like  Vera,  and  see  !  she  is 
waving  her  handkerchief,  with  her  laughing  black  eyes  on  hiin. 
He  returns  the  salute.  Wiiat  is  Vera  about  just  now,  he 
wonders,  and  has  she  quite  got  over  Mrs.  Charlton's  brutal 
attack  ?  And  so  they  steam  away,  down  towards  Sandy 
Hook,  in  the  morning  sunshine,  to  the  merry  strains  of  "  The 
Girl  I  Left  Behind  Me." 


CHAPTER  XXI. 


"the    girl    I    LEFT   BEHIND    ME." 


I 


I 


HE  is  sitting  in  a  rustic  chair  down  among  the  peach 
and  plum  trees,  with  idly  folded  hands,  and  listless 
air.  Over  her  head  shines  the  mellow  sun  of  a 
scented  September  afternoon  ;  about  her  blows  the  soft  Sep- 
tember breezes ;  all  around  her  the  fruit-trees  temptingly 
stand,  laden  down  with  their  golden  and  purple  globes.  On 
tiie  grass  at  her  feet  lies  her  hat ;  near  it,  on  guard,  crouches 
Nero,  casting  now  and  then  a  wondering,  reproachful,  sleepy 
glance  at  his  apathetic  mistress.  Further  off,  the  grass  is 
strewn  with  windfalls,  trophies  of  last  night's  storm.     But  the 


«'  THE    GIRL   I  LEFT  BEHIND  ME:' 


207 


1 


windfalls  lie  ungathered,  plums  and  peaches  hang  juicy  and 
mellow  over  her  head  in  vain.  Their  charm  is  gone  ;  tliey 
tempt  her  not ;  lassitude  holds  her,  as  she  sits  here  now,  with 
the  sunlight  sifting  through  the  fluttering  leaves  overhead — so 
she  has  sat  for  fully  an  hour ;  so  she  has  sat  for  hours  and 
hours,  in  the  long  fortnight  that  is  gone. 

There  are  girls,  simply  and  wholesomely  brought  up,  tall 
and  well  grown,  womanly  enough  in  appearance,  who  are  yet 
the  veriest  children  in  heart ;  who  can  enjoy  a  game  of  puss 
in  the  corner,  or  blind-man's  buff,  with  as  hearty  and  thor- 
ough a  zest  at  sixteen  as  at  six.  Vera  is  one  of  these — Vera 
has  been  one  of  these,  but  a  subtle  change  has  begun — is  at 
work  daily,  insidiously,  and  the  Vera  of  two  weeks  ago  is  not 
the  Vera  of  to-day. 

So  the  grapes  hang  iinplucked,  the  peaches  drop  uneaten. 
Nero  lies  unromped  with,  and  she  sits  here  all  the  day  idle. 
She  is  thinking.  In  all  her  sixteen  years  of  life  she  has  not 
thought  as  much  as  she  has  done  during  the  last  two  weeks. 
She  is  thinking  for  herself.  Dora  will  never  be  the  keeper 
of  her  conscience  more.  The  slow  change  from  frolicsome 
girlhood  to  thoughtful,  earnest  womanhood  has  begun — is  far 
advanced.  She  has  been  standing  on  the  hitherward  side  of 
Mr.  Longfellow's  allegorical  brook,  and  a  brutal  hand  has 
pushed  her  across  years  before  her  time.  She  has  eaten  of  the 
fruit  of  the  tree  of  knowledge,  and  its  taste  is  bitter.  She  shrinks 
with  terror ;  she  burns  with  shame  ;  she  covers  her  hot  face 
with  her  hands,  as  she  recalls  Mrs.  Charlton's  words.  To  the 
last  day  of  her  life  they  will  ring  in  her  ears,  harsh,  stern, 
merciless — true — to  the  last  day  of  her  life  she  will  see  Rich- 
ard Ffrench  as  she  saw  him  then,  standing  erect  and  noble, 
fighting  her  battles,  defending  her  fair  fame.  It  is  so  cruelly 
true- — the  stab  lies  there.  She  ivas  fond  of  him,  and  thoughit 
no  more  of  hiding  that  fondness  than  if  he  had  been  her 
brother  ;  she  had  followed  him  like  his  shadow,  and  never 
knew  that  it  was   unmaidenly  or  wrong,  or  a  thing   to  be 


-.  .1 


a 


208 


''THE    GIRL   I  LEFT  BEHIND  MEr 


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ashamed  of;  she  did  go  to  Shaddock  Light,  and  remain  with 
him  there,  with  never  a  thought  of  what  the  world  might  say. 
She  has  thought  no  evil  ;  she  knows  nothing  of  the  world  or 
its  ways — inclosed  in  a  cloister,  she  could  hardly  have  led  a 
more  hidden,  a  more  innocent  life.  And  through  that  inno- 
cent ignorance  a  great  and  cruel  wrong  has  been  done,  that 
nothing  in  this  world  can  ever  set  right.  Brave,  loyal,  chiv- 
alrous Captain  Dick  has  married  her,  caring  nothing  for  her, 
to  stop  the  wagging  world's  tongue.  Now  she  knows  why  he 
left  it  to  Dora  to  tell  her — why  his  note  from  New  York  held 
only  those  four  cold  lines — why  he  would  not  come  until  the 
very  last  moment — why  care  and  trouble  darkened  his  face  on 
his  wedding-day.  She  knows  it  all — all.  He  has  stood 
yonder  and  defended  her  against  her  foe — yes,  but  she  can 
cou'^.t  nothing  on  that ;  it  is  Captain  Dick's  generous  way  to 
fight  the  battles  of  the  losing  side.  He  may  believe  it — he 
must  believe  it.  How  can  it  be  otherwise,  seen  as  she  sees 
it  now  ?  Her  conduct  from  first  to  last  has  been  such  as  to 
make  her  hate  herself  for  very  shame.  He  has  thought  her 
in  love  with  him — not  foolishly  fond  of  him,  but  in  love  with 
him  ;  he  thinks  she  followed  him  that  night  to  Shaddeck  on 
puri)ose  to  stay — on  purpose  to  make  him  marry  her.  Oh  ! 
even  here  by  herself,  it  is  too  shameful.  She  covers  her  face 
and  shrinks  from  th'e  wistful  eyes  of  the  dog.  Nothing  is, 
they  say,  but  thinking  makes  it  so.  She  has  brooded  over 
this  until  not  a  doubt  remains — all  that  Mrs.  Charlton  has 
said  he  believes  ;  and  to  save  her,  and  forced  by  Dora,  he  has 
married  her,  and  sacrificed  his  whole  life. 

She  sits  here  thinking  this,  as  she  has  thought  it  over  and 
over  again.  She  is  fast  becoming  morbid,  she  avoids  her 
sister,  she  cannot  meet  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Charlton,  she  shrinks 
from  her  host,  Mrs.  Charlton  is  still  here,  for  Vera  has  not 
said  one  word  to  Dora  of  all  that  has  passed.  Nothing  could 
mark  the  change  m  her  more  sharply  than  this.  In  all  her 
life  she  has  never  had  a  thought,  a  secret  from  Dora,  but  she 


1 


■«!    %. 


"  THE    GIRL   I  LEFT  BEHIND  MEr 


?.og 


has  kept  licr  own  counsel  here.  It  is  partly  because  she  feels 
she  would  die  of  shame  to  speak  of  it  even  to  her,  partly  be- 
cause she  knows  her  enemy  would  have  to  leave  Charlton  an 
hour  after  her  revelation. 

And  Vera  is  a  generous  foe.  She  docs  not  blame  the 
woman  much.  She  has  thought  it  her  duty  to  apprise  Captain 
Dick  of  the  truth,  she  believes  her  own  story,  what  does  her 
going  or  staying  signify  ?  So  she  says  nothing,  and  falls  after 
that  first  paroxysm  of  desi)air,  into  this  abnormal  state  of  list- 
less moping,  and  ivanders  away  by  herself,  heedless  of  book, 
Oi'  work,  or  dog,  or  piano,  and  sits  about  in  damp,  green 
places,  at  the  risk  of  premature  rheumatism,  and  broods, 
auvl  broods  over  her  own  deadly  sins  the  long,  warm  days 
through. 

She  has  received  Captain  Dick's  farewell  letter,  but  she 
has  not  read  it.  She  has  looked  with  dreary  eyes  at  the  large 
"  Vera,"  written  on  the  white  envelope,  and  takes  it  upstairs, 
and  laid  it  away  in  her  work-box  unread.  She  knows  what  is 
in  it,  or  thinks  she  does.  What  is  the  use  of  going  over  all 
that  again  ?  She  takes  off  the  wedding-ring  from  her  slim 
third  finger,  and  shuts  it  up  in  its  pink  jeweler's  cotton  once 
more.  There,  in  its  pristine  glitter  let  it  lie,  she  will  not  wear 
it.  She  never  wants  to  see  Captain  Dick  as  long  as  she 
lives.  He  despises  her — he  has  left  her,  glad  to  get  away, 
thinking  her  everything  that  is  forward,  and  unfeminine,  and 
disgraceful.  She  will  never  write  to  him,  never  think  of  him, 
never  care  for  him,  never  speak  of  him,  her  whole  life-long. 

Dora  sees  the  dismal  change,  and  tries  her  best  to  find  out 
the  cause.  But  Vera  is  mute.  Dora  has  betrayed  her,  it  is 
all  Dora's  doing — she  will  never  trust  her  again.  So  Miss 
Lightwood  gives  her  two  or  three  hearty  ratings  for  her  mop- 
ing fits,  and  sets  it  all  down  to  reaction  after  excitement,  and 
the  absence  of  her  idol.  It  will  pass  and  the  child  will  take 
no  harm.  Truth  to  tell,  Miss  Lightwood  has  so  much  to 
think  of,  and  see  about,  these  golden  September  days,  that 


I    i! 


1        \     ' 


J    ii 


7^ 


210 


«'  THE    GIRL   I  LEFT  BEHIND  ME:' 


EF-n 


ill 


;  'I 


m 


she  has  no  time  to  exorcise  Vera's  bhie  devils.  She  is  clos- 
eted a  great  deal  with  Mr.  Charlton  ;  there  are  long,  serious 
conversations  in  the  study,  long  drives,  long  letters  to  write, 
and  to  read.  "As  the  bow  unto  the  arrow,"  so  is  Theodora 
Lightwood  to  the  master  of  Charlton.  What  is  it  all  about, 
\'('ra  wonders,  aimlessly,  and  is  Dora  going  back  to  New 
York,  and  when  are  her  studies  to  begin  ?  Mrs.  Charlton 
wonders  too,  and  more,  perhaps,  to  the  purpose.  She  shows 
no  symptoms  of  speedy  departure,  and  makes  herself  re- 
markably at  home  in  this  pleasant  country  house. 

lUit  the  second  week  of  Sei)tembcr  brings  a  revolution,  an 
upsetting  of  all  things,  and  the  dawn  of  a  new  dynasty.  All 
of  a  sudden  Miss  Lightwood  announces  at  dinner  one  day, 
her  intention  of  going  u[)  to  New  York  on  the  next.  Mr. 
Charlton  looks  conscious,  and  la3's  open  the  hidden  articu- 
lations of  the  turkey  he  is  carving  with  something  less  than 
his  usual  skill.  Mrs.  Charlton  eyes  her  foe  across  the  table 
with  a  steady,  suspicious  gaze.  Vera  looks  up  with  sudden 
interest. 

"  Going  to  New  York  ?  Take  me,  Dot.  I  should  like  to 
go." 

Dora  glances  at  her.  She  is  pale  and  thin,  and  looks  as 
if  she  needed  a  change.     Then  she  turns  to  Mr.  Charlton. 

•'  It  will  do  her  good,"  he  says ;  "  I  think  you  will  have  to 
take  her.  I  am  responsible,  you  know,"  with  a  smile,  "  for 
her  safe  keeping." 

"  Very  well,"  says  Dora.  "  Pack  up  this  evening.  Vera — 
not  all  your  things,  you  know — ^just  a  dress  or  two.  We  will 
go  by  the  morning  tram." 

l>y  the  morning  train  they  go,  and  Mrs.  Charlton  is 
chatelaine.  But  her  host  keeps  out  of  her  way  ;  he  si)ends 
most  of  his  time  in  St.  Ann's,  or  about  his  farms — his  avoid- 
ance is  so  pointed,  indeed,  that  she  cannot  fail  to  perceive 
it.  Still,  as  long  as  she  is  not  absolutely  ordered  out  of  the 
house,  in  the  house  she  is  resolved  to  stay.     Miss  Lightwood 


•'  THE    GIRL   I  LEFT  BEHIND  ME." 


211 


is  gone  just  five  days  when  ^^t■.  Charlton  follows.  This  is 
startlinJ,^  Dark  suspicions,  vague  hitherto,  begin  to  take 
real  and  tangible  form,  and  in  less  than  another  week  arc 
confirmed. 

One  morning  the  New  York  Ifcrahl  is  laid  beside  her 
plate,  smelling  all  damp  and  nasty  of  printers'  ink,  and  open- 
ing it,  the  first  thing  her  eyes  rest  on  is  this  : 


•        V 


'ill 


"Charlton— LiciiTWOOD. — On  the  12th  inst.,  at  the  Windsor 
Hotel,  the  I[i)n()tal)le  RonicRT  Rirnir.RFOKD  Cii.viu/rov,  ex-Govcrnor 
of  Iowa,  to  TiiEuooRA  Klizaueth  Ligutwoou,  of  New  York." 

Married  !  The  pai)er  swims  before  her — she  sits  and 
stares  blankly  at  the  printed  words.  Married  !  actually  mar- 
ried !  That  bold-fLiced  little  hussy  !  that  designing  little 
trickster '  that  crafty  little  cat  !  She  has  secured  the  step- 
son for  her  sister,  the  step-father  for  herself !  Her  worst 
fears  are  realized.  All  has  gone  to  Dora  Lightwood — 
she  and  Eleanor  are  nowhere  in  the  race.  And  it  is  all 
Eleanor's  fault.  Charlton  is  no  longer  a  place  for  her  ;  no 
house  that  calls  Dora  Lightwood  mistress  can  ever  for  one 
night  afford  shelter  to  her.  If  she  had  had  any  doubt  on 
the  subject,  a  note  that  comes  to  her  that  very  afternoon 
dispels  it.  It  is  from  the  new  lady  and  mistress  of  Charlton 
Place,  and  is  an  emphatic  writ  of  ejectment. 

"The  Crescent  City  will  be  looking  its  loveliest  this  nice  September 
weather,"  writes  gayly  the  britle.  "I  know  how  you  hate  the  North — 
have  I  not  heard  you  say  so  ?  Do  not  sacrifice  your  comfort  any  longer 
by  remaining  in  it.  I  quite  envy  you  the  remainder  of  this  month  in 
your  native  city.  How  rejoiced  Nelly  will  be  to  see  you  !  Give  her 
our  love.  At  some  future  time  I  intend  to  invite  Jur  to  make  a  second 
visit  to  Charlton.  My  hu'^band  is  well,  and  joins  with  me  in  wishing 
you  a  pleasant  return  journey  to  the  South.  We  go  home  very  soon, 
and  would  rather  be  spared  the  pain  of  saying  good-by — you  understand  ? 
Between  relatives  parting  is  so  sad  !     And  just  now  we  are  so  happy 


'    II 


1 


212 


"  rnii  GIRL  I  LEFT  liF.nmD  me:* 


It 


M 


li 


that  we  cannot  bear  to  think  of  even  the  slightest  cloiul  that  will  mar 
our  felicity. 

*•  Yours,  etc., 

*'  TiiKonoRA  K.  Lien  rwooL)  Charlton." 

October,  and  late  in  the  month.  A  golden-gray  sky,  sun- 
less but  bright,  lying  low  over  the  gray  sea.  Orange  and 
crimson,  the  hemlocks  and  maples  stand,  gorgeous  in  their 
fall  dress.  Windfalls  no  longer  strew  the  grounds,  peach 
and  plum  trees  are  stripped.  Purple  bunches  of  grapes 
tempt  Vera  no  longer,  but  Vera  is  here,  bright  and  brown, 
and  looking  jjretly  well  recovered  from  her  post-nuptial 
despair.  ].ifc,  after  all,  is  not  quite  at  an  end  at  sixteen 
and  a  half,  even  if  one  has  made  a  dreadful  mistake.  Mis- 
takes may  be  mended,  one  may  live  and  learn,  the  world  is 
full  of  pleasant  places,  and  kindly  i)eople.  She  has  found 
this  out  in  her  month  of  travel  with  Dot  and  Mr.  Charlton. 
For  they  have  taken  her  with  them  ;  she  is  no  incumbrance, 
and  her  dark,  silently-pleading  eyes  are  irresistible.  She  has 
seen  Niagara  and  the  Thousand  Isles,  and  dear  old,  gray, 
historic  Quebec,  and  quaint  French  Montreal,  and  absolutely 
forgotten  more  than  once  that  such  a  being  as  Captain  Dick 
Ffrench  exists,  that  she  is  what  Dot  calls  a  **  respectable 
married  woman."  She  wears  no  ring;  she  is  introduced  as 
Miss  Martinez  ;  she  insists  upon  it  so  passionately  that  they 
yield.  She  wears  long  dresses,  lovely  light  silks  with  trains, 
and  every  one  she  meets  smiles  down  frankly  into  the  glad, 
bright,  eager,  beautiful  Southern  eyes.  It  is  a  happy  time,  a 
royal  time.  Life  opens  before  her  in  a  vista  of  iniinite  pos- 
sibilities. 

Dora  spends  money  like  a  queen.  Mr.  Charlton  dwells  in 
a  seventh  heaven,  and  grows  young  again.  He  is  a  hand- 
some old  gentlemen  at  all  times  ;  kindly,  too,  when  not 
crossed  ;  he  is  proud  and  fond  of  his  young  wife,  without 
making  an  uxorious  fool  of  himself,  and  is  ready  to  indulge 


r 


iik.i^ 


$\    V' 


'«  THE   GIRL  I  LEFT  liE/flXD  MEy 


213 


ley 


Ige 


Vera  in  every  whim.  So  they  enjoy  themselves  all  through 
September,  and  far  into  yellow  October.  Now  it  is  the  last 
week  of  the  month,  and  Vera  sits  here  on  the  rustic  chair 
alone.  Once  more  Nero  lies  at  her  feet,  neglected  no  longer, 
but  patted,  and  made  much  of,  and  conversetl  with  on  topics 
suited  to  his  doggish  intellect,  for  Vera  knows  how  to  adapt 
her  conversation  to  her  company.  A  book  is  in  her  hand  ; 
she  reads  quietly,  only  looking  now  and  then  to  follow  the 
llight  of  a  bird,  or  the  diz/y  boom  of  a  laden  bee.  Her  eyes 
are  bright,  a  fresh  color  is  in  her  cheeks,  she  laughs  outright 
once  at  something  in  her  book,  and  it  is  the  sound  of  this 
laughter  that  guides  another  lady  to  the  spot.  A  lady  in  a 
pretty  dinner  dress  as  blue  as  her  eyes,  i)erfumed,  jewelled, 
fair  to  behold,  the  lion.  Mrs.  R.  R.  Charlton.  She  smiles 
slightly  as  Vera  laughs  aloud  a  second  time,  a  satisfied  smile. 
Dick  Ffrench  is  well  away,  and  his  bride  is  not  breaking  her 
heart  for  his  sake,  that  is  sure.  15ut  for  all  that  Dora  does 
not  {^uite  understand  the  change  in  her  sister  since  his  de- 
parture. In  many  ways  she  is  completely  changed.  She 
never  speaks  of  him — she  upon  whose  tongue  the  name  of  Cap- 
tain Dick  was  forever.  In  her  brightest  moods  she  daikens, 
frowns,  grows  silent,  if  he  is  recalled.  She  refuses  to  speak 
of  their  parting  ;  she  refuses  to  discuss  her  marriage  at  all. 

She  has  grown  reticent — she  holds  herself  entirely  aloof 
from  all  gentlemen,  with  a  sort  of  proud,  shrinking  shyness. 
Like  Undine  on  her  wedding-day,  she  seems  to  have  found 
her  soul. 

"  Your  book  appears  to  be  amusing,  my  dear,"  says  Mrs. 
Charlton.  "You  will  soon  have  to  give  u[)  novels,  however, 
and  take  to  the  nine  parts  of  speech,  and  trisyllables.  Miss 
Lansing  will  be  here  next  week." 

Miss  Lansing  is  a  very  accomplished  English  governess, 
engaged  in  Canada,  perfect  in  music  and  modern  languages. 
Vera  looks  up  with  interest. 

"lam  glad  of  that,"  she  says,  "  very  glad.     It  is  time  I 


■M. '     1 


214 


"  THE    GIRL  I  LEFT  BEHIND  ME:' 


■  t    ,•   '     ! 


\A  W 


^    \ 


began,  and   I  mean   to  do  my  best.     No  one  can  be  moie 
ashamed  of  her  ignorance  than  I  am — no  one  has  more  need." 

Her  voice  falters  a  little,  she  turns  away.  Her  sister  looks 
at  her  keenly. 

"  It  is  almost  time  we  were  hearing  from  Captain  Ffrench," 
she  says,  abruptly. 

I'here  is  no  reply. 

"Vera,  what  was  in  that  letter  he  sent  you  from  New 
York  ?  " 

*'I  do  not  know." 

"  W/iat.r' 

"I  do  not  know.  You  need  not  look  incredulous — it  is 
true.  It  is  upstairs  in  my  writing-desk.  I  have  never 
opened  it." 

"  Never  opened  it !    Never  opened  Dick  P'french's  letter  !  " 

"  No.  What  was  the  use  ?  1  know  what  is  in  it — four 
formal  lines.  I  would  rather  keep  it  as  it  is.  Some  day  I 
may  read  it.  Dot,  you — you  have  not  told  Miss  Lansing 
that " 

"  That  her  pupil  is  married — not  likely.  And  no  one 
here  knows  except  Harriet,  and  I  have  given  her  to  under- 
stand that  if  she  tells  tales  slie  goes.  It  is  best  so,  as  next 
spring  you  must  go  to  school.  Mr.  Charlton  and  I  are  going 
abroad  in  April  to  remain  the  whole  year,  and  Charlton  is  to 
be  transformed.  I  intend  to  add  a  wing  there,  for  a  billiard 
and  ball-room — opposite,  on  the  south  side,  shall  be  a  conser- 
vatory. A  few  more  chambers  will  also  be  needed.  Each 
year,  from  September  to  Christmas,  I  intend  to  fill  the  house 
with  guests,  and  for  the  iirst  time  in  my  life  enjoy  my  life. 
Oh,  Vera,  they  m^v  say  what  they  like,  but  only  the  rich 
live.  The  poor  exist,  drag  out  their  days  somehow,  but 
wealth  is  the  golden  key  that  unlocks  the  world,  and  all 
therein.  I  think  I  never  knew  what  it  was  to  be  really 
hapi)y  before." 

Vera  eyes  her  wistfully. 


^I'^'ll  ^ 


"  THE    GIRL  I  LEFT  BEHIND  ME. 


215 


"And  you  are  happy,  Dot  ?  " 

"As  happy  as  a  queen — I  can  think  of  no  greater  happi- 
ness than  that.  I  am  proud  of  my  husband.  1  would  not 
exchange  him  for  your  Captain  Dick,  no,  nor  for  any  man  I 
ever  saw.  I  am  fond  of  my  hu:iband — he  is  awfully  good  to 
me,  Vera  ;  he  denies  me  nothing,  and  he  is  richer  than  even 
I  sup[)osed.  And  I  am  happy,  happy,  happy  !  I  would 
not  exchange  places  with  any  woman  in  America." 

And  Dora  meant  it.  To  the  full  extent  of  her  capacity 
for  happiness,  she  is  happy.  How  this  marriage  came  about, 
who  is  to  tell  ?  It  is  an  idea  certainly  that  never  of  itself 
would  have  entered  Mr.  Charlton's  head.  But  if  a  young 
girl,  all  unknown  to  herself,  gives  her  heart  unasked,  and — 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  and  if  tearful  azure  eyes,  and  lovely 
light  hair,  and  a  faltering,  broken  voice,  are  brought  into 
play,  what  is  an  elderly  gentleman,  easily  fooled  and  flattered, 
to  do  ?  They  are  married,  and  Dora  is  devoted  to  him,  and 
means  to  be  a  good  little  wife,  and  make  him  happy.  She 
can  wind  him  round  her  finger,  he  gives  himself  up  to  the 
siren  spell  of  the  enchantress,  and  never  dreams  of  saying  no 
to  his  little  missis.  The  gray  mare,  at  Charlton,  it  is  clear 
from  the  first,  will  be  the  bttter  horse. 

"  He  is  late  for  dinner,"  says  Dora,  looking  at  her  watch. 
"What  detains  him,  I  wonder?  He  said  he  would  return  by 
the  four  o'clock  boat,  vvithout  fail." 

"  Where  has  he  gone  ?  " 

"  To  New  York,  on  important  business.  I  may  tell  you, 
I  suppose — to  make  his  will.  It  is  always  a  wise  precaution. 
He  should  have  been  here  two  hours  ago." 

"Some  one  is  coming  now,"  says  Vera. 

Over  the  hard  white  road,  and  up  the  long  sweep  of 
avenue,  a  horseman  rides — rides,  too,  at  a  furious  pace. 

"  It  is  not  my  husband,"  says  Dora,  "  he  never  gallops 
like  that." 

It   is   not  her   husband,    it   is   a   man   from   St.    Ann's, 


w 

n 

1 

Jl 

1' 

2ib 


«'  TJ/£    GIRL   I  LEyr  BEHIND  ME:' 


dusty,  pale,  excited.  She  rises  from  her  seat,  and  calls  to 
him, 

"  Do  you  wish  to  see  me  ? "  she  asks.  "  Have  you  a 
message  for  the  house  ?  " 

"1  want  to  see  Mrs.  Charlton,"  he  answers,  touching 
his  cap  and  looking  anxious.  "  If  either  of  you  young 
ladies " 

"/am  Mrs.  Charlton." 

He  falls  back  a  pace,  and  is  silent.     Dora  comes  up  close. 

"  Something  is  wrong,"  she  exclaims.  "  W^hat  is  it  ? 
Speak  quickly  ! " 

"  Our  people  sent  me,"  the  man  says,  in  a  hurried,  breath- 
less sort  of  way  ;  "  they  are  coming  as  fast  as  they  can.  I 
was  to — to  break  it  to  you." 

"Break  what?  Be  quick,  I  say!"  cries  Dora,  stamping 
her  foot. 

"  Miss — ma'am,  there's  been  an  accident  to  the  steamer — 
an  explosion — not  much  of  an  explosion,  but  two  persons 
are  hurt,  and  one  is — is " 

"  Killed  !  "  cries  Vera. 

"  Killed,  miss.  And  I'm  sorry  to  say,  miss — ma'am,  I 
mean — that  that  one  is " 

No  need  to  say  it.  The  feet  of  those  who  bear  him  are 
at  his  gates.  He  lies  on  a  door,  all  stark  and  ghastly,  the 
dead  face  covered,  who  was  only  this  morning  a  hale  and 
ui)right  gentleman.  And  Theodora  Charlton,  six  weeks  a 
wife,  is  a  widow. 


f 


"  WHEN  DAY  IS  DONE:' 


217 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

"WHEN   DAY   IS    DOXE." 

OVEMBER  is  he,e  i.  here  in  .a,„,  and  wind,  and 
nu..  Overhead  there  is  a  leaden,  low-lying,  fast- 
drifong  sky-far  away  there  is  a  sea  black   toss 

^hi:  aS:t     '?^-  "f  '-'  ^  ^■■^"">«.  banshtl;:- 

buff  ts  .L  .  e         ;,       "  ""  ^"""'  ^"^  ^"-"-  "'■"'  -d 
iinets   ne  ti  ees.      The  ram  patters,  patters  aminst  the  L.ii«  • 

■t  .s  chtll,  too,  with  a  tonch  of  winter  in  the  blast  ^       ' 

Vera  stands  at  her  bedroon,  window  and  games'  out      It  h 
^te  tn  the  afternoon,  and   the  house  is  as  stil    a   a  ton  b 

Z:z^::t::n'T  '"^  ''^-'^'-  of  raLblat'- 

landscape  to  the  far  sea  hne.  Yonder  is  Sliaddeck  I  i^hf 
nearly  blotted  out  in  a  whirl  of  rain  and  sea-'  g  t  i'tn' 
antle  s  now,  even  Daddy  is  no  longer  there.  Sife  turn  froTr, 
.  wtth  aversion_if  she  could  only  blot  it  out  o  le  e„  ^l 
out  of  ex,ste„ce  1  How  the  trees  are  twisting  and  t3 
about  w,ld,  green  ar„,s  in  the  herce  embrace  of  the  gajj     ^ 

"  A  wind  that  shrieks  to  the  window-pane 
A  wind  in  the  chimney  moaning." 

Sh!ddeck° t  *""'"'■•     """  "'"'  '■'  ■"-'  be  out  there  on 

ca,  s'    Whatlor°"\"T"   ^^^^'-'-^ing  little   white  - 
cips  .     What  short  work   they  would  make  of  the  Nixie 
And  what  a  clean  white  deati,  it  would  be,  so  n,     h  ^et'e" 
tl^an  half  what  .he  world  dies  of-long,  loalhsotne.  Ltd" 

Death  is  in  the  girl's  nnnd  today-has  been  the  chief 

s,ght,  and  l,fe  goes  on  without  hi,n.     It  is  a  desolate 


2l8 


"  WHEN  DAY  IS  done:' 


thought — they  carry  us  to  the  grave,  and  life  goes  on  with- 
out us.  Just  the  same  to  those  who  held  us  most  dear — a 
gap — a  missing  face  and  voice  for  a  Httle,  then  gently  ob- 
livion, and  we  are  forgotten.  But  it  is  too  soon  for  forget- 
ting here  yet.  Vera's  mind  is  full  of  him.  How  awfully 
sudden  it  all  was  !  Hundreds  of  railway  accidents,  of  steam- 
boat explosions,  happen,  and  we  shudder  for  a  moment,  and 
they  pass  from  our  memory  ;  but  some  time  one  comes 
home  to  us,  and  stands  cruelly  apart   forever,  from  all  the 

rest.     "  In  the  midst  of  life "     By  land  and  sea  there 

are  disasters.  By  sea  !  Does  this  surging  November  storm 
howl  out  there  on  the  ocean  where  he  is,  and  is  he  in  dan- 
ger ?  A  cold,  creeping  sense  of  ftar  comes  over  her  ;  she 
has  said  she  never  wants  to  look  on  his  face  again — what  if 
she  never  does  ? 

"  Vera,  my  dear,"  a  voice  breaks  in,  "  Mrs.  Charlton  says 
she  wishes  you  would  go  to  her.  She  is  in  the  study,  sorting 
papers,  and  wants  you  to  help  her,  I  think." 

It  is  Miss  Lansing,  the  governess.  Vera  turns  from  the 
window,  relieved  to  find  her  dreary  train  of  thought  broken 
up.  She  descends  to  what  a  week  ago  was  the  master's 
study,  and  finds  her  sister  sitting  at  a  desk,  with  bundles  of 
letters  and  papers  before  her.  In  her  trailing  crape  and 
bombazine  Dora  looks  fairer  and  frailer  than  ever ;  on  her 
golden  hair  is  a  widow's  cap,  and  her  pale  blue  eyes  are 
faded  and  washed  out  with  weeping.  For  Dora  has  wei)t 
real  and  honest  tears  of  sincere  regret.  He  was  so  good  to 
her,  so  fond  of  her,  so  fond  of  her.  As  much  love  as  her 
poor  little  flimsy  heart  has  to  give,  she  has  given  to  the  gen- 
erous gentleman  who  made  her  his  wife. 

His  death  has  been  a  blow,  a  bitter  blow,  softened,  it  may 
be — although  she  will  not  own  it  even  to  herself — by  the 
fact  that  he  has  left  her  everything,  absolutely  everything. 
The  will  has  been  read,  and  there  is  no  horde  of  hungry  re- 
lations to  dispute  it,  to  talk  of  undue  influence,  of  unsound 


r 


♦«  WHEN  DA  V  IS  done:' 


219 


mind,  etc.  It  leaves  her  everything.  Mrs.  Charlton  and 
Eleanor  are  not  even  mentioned ;  to  Vera  is  left  ten  thou- 
sand dollars.  All  the  rest — a  noble  inheritance — goes  to  his 
beloved  wife,  Theodora  ;  and  at  her  decease,  to  his  step-son, 
Richard  Caryl  Ffrench,  should  he  survive  her.  Will  it  be 
believed  ?  Some  latent  sense  of  justice  in  the  little  lady 
herself  has  been  the  instigation  of  this,  coupled  with  the 
hoj^e  that  her  sister  may  benefit  by  it.  In  her  secret  heart 
she  is  convinced  her  life  is  not  likely  to  be  a  long  one — 
when  she  goes  she  cannot  take  all  that  gold  with  her,  and 
has  an  idea  that  if  what  preachers  say  be  true,  it  might  melt 
if  she  could.  This  is  why  Richard  Caryl  Ffrench,  vigorous 
in  strong  young  manhood,  stands  a  chance  of  having  his  own 
again,  when  Mrs.  Charlton  is  done  with  it.  She  has  cast  a 
rapid  glance  over  her  future,  remote  and  present.  She  will 
not  marry  again — that  to  begin  with.  She  is  rich  and  free, 
and  young  and  pretty  ;  she  asks  no  more  of  life.  To  many 
again  would  be  madness.  She  will  remain  at  Charlton  with 
Vera  and  the  governess,  this  winter,  as  she  originally  in. 
tended,  and  go  to  Europe  in  the  spring.  A  year  or  two 
abroad,  and  then,  with  weeds  laid  aside,  and  health  improved, 
she  can  return  and  make  the  most  of  life.  She  is  doomed — 
that  slie  knows  ;  heart-disease,  slow,  insidious,  but  fatally 
sure  is  doing  its  work.  Night  will  come  for  her  more 
quickly  even  than  it  comes  for  most,  but  her  day  shall  be  as 
sunny  as  she  can  make  it.  A  little  heatlien  is  Dora  Charl- 
ton, though  she  goes  to  church  respectably  enough,  every 
fine  Sunday,  and  calls  herself  a  miserable  sinner,  with  the 
best  of  them.  It  is  probably  the  truest  thing  she  says  the 
week  through  ;  an  out  and  out  little  pagan  she  is — Mam- 
mon, fashion,  dress,  pleasure — "  these  be  thy  gods,  O 
Israel ! " 

She  turns  from  her  work  as  Vera  enters — Vera,  looking 
long,  and  slim,  and  black,  in  her  heavy  mourning  robe. 

"  Oh !  Vera,  child,"  she  says,  fretfully,  "  you  must  help 


f\ 


^r 


*  i  :;^ 


if  (    I 


r'l       -K      '^ 


.;    <  ■'■      '■■■ 

220 


"  ^//SA^  DAY  IS  DONE.'' 


me.  I  grow  so  tired  wading  through  all  tliese  dreary  papers 
and  letters,  and  finding  out  what  to  burn  and  what  to  keep. 
I  cannot  ask  Miss  Lansing,  a  stranger,  of  whom  I  know  no- 
thing. Such  quantities  of  bills  and  receipts,  and  old  letters 
— my  head  is  splitting.  All  the  important  papers,  deeds, 
mortgages,  and  that,  Mr.  liennet  has.  But  most  of  this  is  rub- 
bish— 1  wonder  why  people  will  keep  old  letters.  }iere  is  a 
compartment  of  the  desk  I  have  not  gone  through  yet — do 
you  take  them,  and  tell  me  what  they  are.  I  want  to  get 
through  before  dark." 

She  gives  Vera  her  two  hands  full  of  papers.  The  girl 
takes  them,  seats  herself  by  a  window,  and  begins  her  task. 
Some  of  the  letters  are  yellow  with  age — she  is  vividly  in- 
terested. Here  is  a  small,  tlat  package  from  a  school-fellow, 
dated  thirty-five  years  ago,  the  ink  nearly  obliterated.  Here 
is  a  bundle  tied  with  blue  ribbon — they  are  from  his  wife, 
from  Dick  Ffrench's  mother.  Her  color  rises,  she  looks  at 
them  a  moment,  touched  and  interested,  but  she  does  not 
read  them.     She  takes  them  over  to  her  sister. 

"  They  are  from  the  first  Mrs.  Charlton,  Dot,"  she  says, 
and  goes  quietly  back. 

But  Dot  is  not  sentimental — not  in  the  least.  She  glances 
curiously  over  one  or  two,  then  throws  the  poor  little  pile 
into  the  waste-paper  basket.  Only  a  dead  woman's  letters 
to  a  dead  man.  Why  should  they  cumber  the  earth,  when 
writer  and  reader  are  dust  ? 

Bills,  receipts — it  is  as  Dot  said,  the  accumulated  rubbish 
of  years.  More  old  letters  sere  and  withered,  like  autunm 
leaves.  It  is  darkening  fast  outside,  but  she  is  nearly 
through — only  one  letter  left  now.  Not  an  old  one  this 
time  ;  the  writing  is  fresh,  and  black,  and  bold.  Her  heart 
gives  a  great  leap ;  she  knows  that  hand.  She  takes  it  up 
with  a  curious  sort  of  reluctant  tenderness,  and  gently 
touches  with  her  fingers  the  large,  none  too  legible  chirog- 
raphy.     "  New  York,  Aug.  12th  ; "  it  was  written  just  before 


«•  WHEN  DAY  IS  DONE." 


221 


I 


his  marriage,  '*  My  Dear  Governor  " — "  Yours  affectionately, 
R.  C.  Ffrencii."  And  here  is  her  own  name — once,  twice, 
four  times.  Shall  she  read  it — shall  she  give  it  to  Dot  ? 
Surely  she  has  a  right  to  read  it.  Right  or  not,  she  will 
read  it,  for  her  eye  has  caught  something  that  in  a  second 
turns  the  balance.  She  draws  nearer  to  the  waning  light, 
spreads  it  out,  and  begins  to  read. 

It  is  the  epistle  Richard  Ffrench  wrote  to  his  step-father, 
after  the  recei[)t  of  Vera's  unique  love-letter,  and  which  so 
angered  Mr.  Charlton.  It  has  been  thrust  here  out  of  sight, 
and  this  is  how  it  has  come  to  light.  If  Dora  had  met  it,  no 
harm  would  have  been  done  ;  but  Fate,  with  her  usual  grim 
sense  of  humor,  has  come  to  the  front,  taken  the  matter  in 
her  own  hands,  and  here  is  the  result.  Alas,  and  alas  !  wiiy 
do  we  ever  write  letters  ?  They  rise  up  against  us,  saying 
things  we  never  meant  to  make  them  say,  writing  us  down 
asses  in  the  face  of  the  world,  for  our  besotted  folly  in  pen- 
ning them.  Tell  your  mistress  you  love  her,  tell  your  friend 
all  you  have  is  his,  but  tell  it  not  in  black  and  white.  In 
courts  of  law,  in  public  prints,  on  the  jeering  tongues  of 
street-gamins,  they  will  stand  in  judgment  against  you,  and 
make  you  out  a  liar  and  a  fool. 

And  Vera  reads,  and  reads  on  : 

*'  The  more  I  think  of  it  the  more  convinced  am  I  that  the 
sacrifice  is  at  once  absurd  and  unnecessary." "Over- 
whelmed by  the  tears  and  reproaches  of  Miss  Lightwood." 

"  Having  pledged  myself  to  her  sister,  at  any  cost   to 

myself  I  shall  keep  my  word." "  I  feel,  when  too  late  to 

draw  back,  that  this  nonsensical  marriage  is  utterly  unneces- 
sary."  "To  like  her  as  a  child  is  easy  enough — to  love 

her  as  a  woman  may  be   impossible." "  I  have  no  more 

wish  to  sacrifice  my  life  than  other  men,  but  having  pledged 
myself  to  her  sister,  at  any  cost  to  myself,"  etc. 

She  reads  it  through  to  the  bitter  end^  begins  at  the  be- 
ginning, and  reads  it  through  again.     Then  she  sits,  her  loose 


f'     ", 


}  I  I  i  ■* 


If:  ;  ^  ^ 

(1 

. .     J 1    m 

; 

^  '"^'^ilU    n 

• 

222 


«'  WHEN  DAY  IS  DONE:' 


hands  on  the  talkie,  and  stares  blankly  out  at  the  pattering 
rain. 

Dora  has  retreated  to  another  window,  gray  squares  of 
light  in  the  rainy  evening  gloom,  still  poring  over  her  weary 
papers.  It  is  only  half-past  four,  but  down  in  the  kitchen  the 
gas  is  flaring  ;  Vera  can  see  it  shining  out  on  the  wet  stones 
of  the  yard.  She  wonders  what  they  are  cooking  down  in 
that  hot,  bright  i)lace. 

How  it  rains,  and  how  the  wind  blows  !  "  But  having 
pledged  myself  to  her  sister,  at  any  cost  to  myself  I  shall 

keep  my  word "      Is  it  as  wild  and  desolate  out  there  on 

the  great  black  ocean,  where  his  ship  is  tossing,  as  it  is  here 
to-night  ?  and  if  there  is  a  wreck,  will  it  matter  much  that  he 
has  sacrificed  his  life  to  her,  after  all  ? 

Right  before  her  hangs  a  picture  ;  her  eyes  wander  from 
the  storm  outside,  to  the  canvas.  It  is  a  dreary  thing  ;  she 
has  often  thought  so,  and  never  liked  it  ;  she  looks  at  it  with 
an  actual  sense  of  pain  now.  Why  will  artists  j^aint  such 
gloomy  pictures  ?  is  there  not  misery,  and  suffering,  and 
dreariness  enough  in  the  world,  without  their  added  mite  ? 
It  is  a  twilight  scene,  in  cold  grays  and  pale  yellows.  There 
is  the  sunset  line  ;  the  last  chill  red  glimmer  of  light  lingers, 
but  rising  fast,  and  blotting  it  out,  there  is  a  dank,  white 
wraith  of  mist.  Bare  fiel'ds  of  yellow  stubble  ;  a  flat  wet 
marsh,  two  or  three  dismal  pollards  and  willows — nothing 
but  these,  and  the  low  sky  line.  A  broken  rail  fence,  and  a 
woman  leaning  over  it,  with  folded  arms,  her  melancholy 
white  face  turned  to  that  last  pallid  gleam  of  sunset.  It  is 
mournful  ;  it  is  hopeless ;  there  is  a  heart-ache  only  in  look- 
ing at  it.  It  is  called  "When  Day  is  Done."  What  story 
of  pain  and  impotent  misery  is  written  in  that  woman's  de- 
spairing face  ? "  Overwhelmed  by  the  tears  and  re- 
proaches of  Miss  Lightwood  " "  I  feel,  when  too  late 

to  draw  back " 

"  Vera  ! "  calls  Dora,  throwing  herself  back  in  her  chair, 


"  m/iEAr  DAY  IS  done:' 


2.23 


with  a  tired  sigh,  **  will  you  never  have  clone  ?  I  have 
finished  here.     Is  there  anything  worth  keeping  in  that  lot  ?  " 

"Nothing  worth  keei)ing." 

As  she  speaks  she  folds  up  the  letter,  and  puts  it  in  her 
pocket. 

"  Is  that  window  up  ? "  says  Dora,  rising  and  coming 
towards  her.  "You  are  as  hoarse  as  you  can  be,  and — bless 
the  child  ! — she  is  as  white  as  a  sheet." 

"  I  am  cold,  I  think,"  Vera  answers.  She  shivers  as  she 
si)eaks,  and  rises  in  turn.  "  Is  there  anything  else,  Dot.  I 
—  I  feel  half  sick,  somehow."  She  puts  her  hand  to  her 
head,  in  a  lost,  forlorn  sort  of  way.  "  I  will  go  back  to  my 
room,  and  lie  down." 

"  Yes,  go  ;  you  are  as  pale  as  a  spirit,  or  else  it  is  that 
black  dress  and  this  melancholy  rainy  night.  Do  not  come 
down  to  dinner  ;  Harriet  shall  serve  you  in  your  room.  Lie 
down  and  get  to  sleep  early." 

"Yes,  Dot — good-night." 

"  Oh  !  I  will  run  up  and  see  you  presently.  There  is  the 
dressing-bell,  and  here  is  Miss  Lansing." 

Vera  goes  slowly  upstairs.  A  fire  is  burning  in  the  grate, 
and  casting  red,  cheery  lights  over  the  pretty  room.  She 
walks  over  to  it,  takes  out  the  letter,  and  lays  it  on  the  coals. 
It  crisps,  curls,  blackens,  leaps  into  a  jet  of  fiame,  flies  up 
the  chimney,  and  is  gone.  Then  she  crosses  to  her  desk, 
unlocks  it,  and  takes  out  another,  an  unopened  one  this 
time.  "  Vera"  on  the  back  in  the  same  large  free  writing — 
no  other  name.  She  looks  at  it  a  moment,  then  deliberately 
tears  it  in  two,  goes  back  to  the  fire,  and  throws  in  the 
pieces.  In  a  moment  it  is  gone.  But  long  after  the  last 
black  fragment  has  vanished,  long  after  "day  is  done,"  long 
after  Harriet  lays  a  temptingly-laden  server  on  the  table,  she 
stands  there,  her  hands  clasped  before  her,  looking  into  the 
ruddy  coals,  as  if  reading  in  them  the  story  of  a  man's  sacri- 
ficed and  darkened  life. 


I 


i'l 


m 


\:t 


PART    SECOND. 


"  As  through  the  land  at  eve  we  went, 
And  plucked  the  ripened  ears, 

We  fell  out,  my  wife  and  I ; 

Oh  vff  fell  out,  I  know  not  why, 
And  kissed  again  with  tears." 


CHAPTER  I. 


VERA. 


]HE  time  is  summer,  the  place  is  London,  the  scene 
a  room  in  Langham's.  A  yellow-gray  sky,  with 
now  and  then  a  rift  of  golden  sunlight,  glimmers 
above  the  million  roofs  ;  it  is  a  London  fine  day.  The  win- 
dows of  the  room  stand  wide,  the  curtains  are  drawn  back, 
all  the  air  and  light  there  are  have  free  i^lay.  Under  one  of 
the  windows,  among  the  cushions  of  a  broad  lounge,  lies  a 
man,  his  hands  clasped  under  his  head,  the  smoke  from  his 
cigar  curling  upward,  his  eyes  fixed  in  dreamy  smoker's 
content  on  the  world  oiitside.  The  door  of  the  room — a  pri- 
vate parlor — stands  open,  as  well  as  the  windows,  and  a 
lady,  trailing  some  yards  of  silken  splendor  after  her  along 
the  passage,  catches  a  glimpse  of  the  recumbent  figure  and 
smiles  to  herself.  "  How  cool  and  comfortable  he  looks," 
she  thinks ;  "  I  believe  I  must  learn  to  smoke  cigarettes," 
and  so  passes  on,  sending  a  waft  of  wood  violets  to  greet  the 
nose  of  the  smoker. 

The  parlor  adjoining  is  the  lady's,  a  very  elegant  apart- 
ment, with  a  litter  of  books  and  flowers,  and  fancy  work, 
that  gives  it  a  harmonized  and  home-like  look.  The  win- 
dovvs  here  are  open  too,  and  she  goes  over  to  one  of  them 
and  stands  looking  out.      She  is  in  carriage  costume — pale, 


VERA. 


325 


flowing  silk,  some  laco  drapery,  not  to  be  stigmatized  as  a 
shawl,  and  a  bonnet,  a  Paris  marvel,  to  the  uninitiated  eye 
just  a  knot  of  creamy  jjoint  lace  and  one  pa'e  guelder  rose  ; 
but  as  to  price — fabulous.  Her  whole  array,  from  the  dia- 
monds twinkling  in  her  ears  to  the  dainty,  pointed,  high- 
heeled  shoes,  proclaims  lavish  wealth  and  excellent  taste. 
Art,  in  the  shape  of  a  Parisian  milliner  and  mantua- maker, 
has  done  much  for  her ;  nature  has  done  more.  She  sets 
ot^"  her  dress  more  than  her  dress  sets  off  her;  you  forget  the 
toilet  in  looking  at  the  wearer,  and  that  is  high  art.  She  is 
tall,  she  is  dark,  she  is  handsome — in  these  three  points 
there  can  be  no  two  opinions.  The  degree  of  beauty  is  an 
open  question — something  more  than  handsome  the  majority 
call  her.  She  has  a  pair  of  eyes  such  as  Murillo  or  Titian 
in  their  day  loved  to  paint,  eyes  whose  lustrous  brown  beauty 
might  have  redeemed  from  j)lainness  even  a  plain  face.  She 
has  a  rich  abundance  of  silken  dark  hair,  worn  in  a  thick 
twist  high  on  a  shapely  head.  Modistes  and  artists  pro- 
nounce alike  the  figure  simply  perfect  ;  the  hand  in  its 
pearl-tinted  glove,  is  long  and  slim  ;  the  mouth  is  sweet  and 
resolute ;  the  complexion  clear  and  colorless  as  the  leaf  of 
a  calla.  It  is  the  ugly  duckling  transformed  into  a  swan. 
It  is  Vera. 

Six  times  has  the  earth  lain  white  and  dead  under  the  win- 
ter snow,  six  times  has  it  stirred  green  and  living  under  the 
summer  grass,  since  you  saw  her  last.  You  left  her  at  night- 
fall of  a  drear  November  day,  you  find  her  at  four  in  the 
afternoon  of  a  day  in  June.  You  left  her  tall,  straight, 
black,  in  her  mourning  frock  ;  you  find  her  tall,  graceful, 
elegant,  robed  for  a  drive  in  the  park,  in  perfumed  silks 
and  laces.  You  left  her  a  sallow,  unformed  girl  of 
sixteen ;  you  find  her  a  fair  and  gracious  lady  of  two 
and  twenty.  You  left  her  pale  and  sorrow-stricken  at  Charl- 
ton ;  you  find  her  in  blooming  health  and  buoyant  spirits  at 
Langham's.     You  left  her  rusticated  near  the  obscure  town 


nr 


a 


i'< ' 


226 


VERA. 


of  St.  Ann's  ;  you  find  her  a  brilliant  belle,  running  the  round 
of  a  brilliant  London  season,  thorougiily  enjoying  her  life, 
her  youth,  her  position,  her  pleasures,  her  beauty.  They 
are  two,  yet  the  same — the  moi)ing,  forlorn  little  **  Mari- 
ana," deserted  in  her  Yankee  moaten  grange,  and  this  gay 
young  lady  in  her  Parisian  attire — the  same  Vera — with  a 
difference. 

She  takes  a  low  easy-chair,  and  sits  down  to  wait.  The 
window  at  which  she  sits  adjoins  that  at  which  her  mas- 
culine neighbor  smokes.  Now  and  then  an  odorous  waft 
greets  her.  Presently  he  finishes,  and  begins  to  whistle. 
Then  he  rises  and  starts  on  a  constitutional  up  and  down 
the  room,  keeping  step  to  his  own  music.  Next  he  goes 
to  a  piano,  standing  oi)en  in  a  corner,  and  strikes  half  a 
dozen  deep  chords  with  a  hand  that  understands  the  in- 
strument. This  seems  to  inspire  him,  for  it  is  followed  by  a 
ringing  Uhlan  song,  in  a  fine  mellow  tenor  voice : 

"  Der  Ilusar, 
Trara  ! 

Was  ist  die  Gefahr  ? 
Sein  Wein— flink  !  flink  I 
Sabel  blink  !  Sabel  trink— 

Trink  Blut  !  Tiara  I 

Dcr  Husar, 

Trara  . 

Was  ist  die  Gefahr  ? 
Sein  herzliebstcr  Klang, 
Sein  liebgesang, 

Schlafgesang.     Trara  ! " 

Vera  listens,  and  smiles  at  first — evidently  the  gentleman 
is  in  fine  spirits,  and  not  at  all  lonely  in  his  solitude.  But 
after  the  first  voice  the  smile  fades,  her  dark  brows  contract, 
she  has  heard  that  song  before,  once  before.  It  seems  to 
her  even  she  has  heard  that  voice.  For  a  moment  she  is 
puzzled  to  recall  where — then,  with  a  start,  and  a  thrill,  al- 


VERA. 


227 


? 


most  of  terror,  it  flashes  upon  her.     A  long  lamp-lit  drawing- 

:oc)i)i,  a  girl  in  a  short  dress,  and  cropped  curls,  standing  by 

a  piano,  a  man  sitting  at  it,  striking  a  spirited  accompaniment, 

and  trolling  out  this  ballad  of  Nicholaus  Lenaun,  smiling  up 

at  her  as  he  sings.     It  is  so  long  ago — so  long  ago,  and  yet 

— only  six  years. 

"Der  Ilusar, 
Trara  1 " 

He  has  left  the  ])iano,  and  resumed  his  quick  nia'ch  ,ip 
and  down.  Vera's  heart  has  started  beatin^i  with  a  rapidity 
that  it  has  not  pulsed  with  for  the  two  years  of  her  fashiona- 
ble life.  How  plainly  the  voice  comes  to  her — how  like 
it  is  ? 

"  Sein  Wein— flink  !  flink  ! 
Sal)el  blink,  Sabel  trink — 
Trink  Ulut  !     Trara!" 

She  rises  quickly,  impulsively,  and  rings  the  bell.  A 
French  maid  appears  after  a  moment- 

"  Felician,"  her  mistress  says  rapiilly,  "  go  and  get  me  a 
list  of  all  the  arrivals  at  this  hotel  for  the  past  w«ek.  And 
be  quick." 

The  girl  goes.  The  voice  of  her  musical  neighbor  has 
ceased  singing,  and  resumed  whistling.  Vera's  brows  are 
contracted,  one  dainty  foot  taps  an  impatient  tattoo. 

*'  If  the  carriage  comes  before  Felician  !  "  she  thinks ; 
"  and  Dot  so  hates  to  be  kept  waiting." 

But  the  carriage  does  not  come  first — Felician  enters  tri- 
umphant with  the  list.  It  is  a  long  one,  but  the  young  lady's 
eye  glances  over  it  in  one  flash.  It  drops  from  her  hand — 
there  it  is — the  name  she  has  looked  for.  The  voice  that 
sings  is  the  voice  that  sang  for  her  six  years  ago  the  same 
dashing  trooper  song. 

All  is  quiet  in  the  next  room  now,  he  has  gone  out  and 
down-stairs.     Her  sense  of  hearing  has  quickened  painfully 


i  V 


i  -1  ; 


228 


VERA. 


within  the  last  few  minutes  ;  the  ringing  refrain  vibrates  in 
her  ears  as  though  it  were  still  sounding  : 

•'  Dcr  Husar, 

Trara  I 
Was  ist  die  Gefahr  ?  " 

"  At  last  !  at  last  !  "  she  says  to  herself,   '*  and  like  this  ! " 

She  has  known  it  must  come,  some  time  or  other,  this 
meeting — with  both  living  it  was  inevitable.  She  has  won- 
dered often  how,  and  when,  and  where  it  might  be,  and  has 
tried  to  bjace  herself  to  all  chances.  After  all,  nothing 
could  be  more  common-place,  less  dramatic  ;  they  are  both 
here  in  the  same  hotel,  and  his  Ulilan  song  has  betrayed 
him.  He  is  on  his  way  to  America  ])erhai)s,  but  that  is  a 
very  wide  guess  perhai)s  ;  the  world  is  his  home,  he  is  of  the 
nomad  tribes,  a  wanderer,  an  Ishmaelite,  a  Bohemian,  a 
soldier  of  fortune.  He  was  wounded  when  last  she  heard 
of  hxxn—frotn  him  she  never  hears — but  that  was  more  than 
six  months  ago.  He  sounds  in  very  excellent  health  and 
spirits  now  at  least  ;  a  bullet  more  or  less  through  the  lungs 
does  not  seem  to  impair  his  musical  powers.  And  he  is 
here  !  Well,  the  world  is  full  of  paper  walls,  and  they  hold 
men  and  women  asunder  as  surely  as  though  they  were  of 
iron  and  adamant.  He  does  not  know  they  are  here,  of 
course  ;  she  ho[)es,  drawing  her  breath  quickly,  and  her 
cheek  flushing — that  he  may  not.  She  will  not  lift  one 
finger  to  let  him  know.  If  only  Dot  does  not  find  out  ! 
But  that  is  hopeless  ;  Dot  finds  out  everything.  Luckily 
tney  go  soon,  and Enter  Felician. 

"  Madame' s  compliments,  mademoiselle,  and  she  is  waiting 
in  the  carriage." 

Vera  rises,  and  sweeps  her  silk  flounces  after  her  over  the 
carpeted  corridor.  A  gentleman  is  running  upstairs  at  the 
moment — she  draws  quickly  back  to  let  him  pass.  He  gives 
her  a  fleeting  glance  of  grand,  careless,  surprised  admiration, 


VERA. 


229 


! 


\ 


uncovers,  and  pai?ses  on.  It  is  too  rapid,  too  indirect,  for 
recognition  ;  he  has  seen  only  a  fair  woman,  richly  robed, 
making  way  for  him,  and  forgets  her  as  soon  as  seen.  She 
goes  down  and  enters  the  carriage,  where  her  sister  already 
sits,  as  Felician  has  intimated.  It  is  Dot,  but  a  fiided  Dot, 
a  pale,  thin,  aged  Dot,  with  tranjparent  skin,  and  sharp 
cheek-bones,  and  bistre  circles  under  the  blue  eyes.  There 
is  rouge  on  the  poor  wan  cheeks,  blanc  dc  perle  on  the  lost 
complexion,  and  a  white  gauze  vail  over  all.  That  her  dress 
is  elaborate,  is  costly,  is  from  Worth,  goes  without  saying  ; 
the  pale  gold  hair  too  is  profuse — more  profuse  than  ever  ; 
Dora  is  rich  and  regards  not  expense.  Jiut  in  s[)ite  of  false 
tresses,  false  bloom,  white  gauze,  and  India  muslin,  Dora 
will  not  bear  inspection  too  nearly,  or  in  too  strong  a  light. 
Her  pink  silk  parasol  casts  a  fictitiously  roseate  hue  over  her, 
but  it  cannot  obliterate  the  fine  lines  of  care  and  premature 
age  between  her  bismuthed  eyes. 

"  How  long  you  have  kept  me  waiting,"  she  says,  queru- 
lously, "  and  good  gracious  !  how  pale  you  are.  Is  it  that 
yellow  rose  you  wear,  or  is  it  that  you  are  ill  ?" 

"  I  am  not  ill,"  Vera  answers  slowly ;  *'  it  will  soon  pass. 
I  am  never  very  red,  you  know.    Where  is  Mr.  Fanshawe  ?  " 

"  He  keeps  me  waiting,  too — how  tiresome  everybody 
is  !  "  still  querulously.     "  Oh  !  here  he  is  at  last." 

A  gentleman  joins  them  on  horseback,  an  excessively 
handsome,  fair  man,  with  profuse  blond  beard,  a  complexion 
as  delicate  as  that  of  a  miss  in  her  teens,  and  a  pair  of  light 
blue,  sleepy  eyes. 

"Not  detained  you,  I  hope?"  he  says,  and  takes  his  place 
at  the  side  of  the  carriage  where  Dora  sits.  But  he  looks 
curiously  at  her  sister,  a  half-smile  on  his  bearded  lii)s.  She 
does  not  notice  him ;  she  is  gazing  straight  before  her,  with 
a  certain  blankness  of  expression  that  shows  she  sees  noth- 
ing. He  pulls  a  newspaper  out  of  his  pocket  and  leans 
down  to  Dora. 


,•;„-.■ 
I. 


Ik    > 


230 


VERA. 


\  I 


\  U 


''Read  that,"  he  says,  in  a  guarded  undertone,  and  points 
out  a  paragraph  ;  "  do  not  let  Vera  see  you." 

She  takes  it  and  glances  in  some  surprise.  It  is  headed 
"  The  Cuban  League,"  and  is  something  about  a  meeting  of 
the  "  Executive  Committee  of  the  Cuban  League,  held  yes- 
terday at  the  rooms  of  Dr.  Emil  Englehart,  Langham's  Hotel, 
at  which  Colonel  R.  C.  Ffrench,  formerly  on  the  staff  of 
General  Morton,  in  the  Sixth  Army  Corps,  of  the  late  Ameri- 
can civil  war,  was  one  of  the  notabilities  present.  The  colo- 
nel, it  may  be  mentioned,  has  recently  distinguished  himself 
greatly  in  '  Cuba  Libre,'  notably  at  the  capture  and  destruc- 
tion of  the  city  of  Las  Tunas.  On  that  occasion  he  was 
severely  wounded,  and  left  for  dead  on  the  field.  His  health 
is  now  almost  entirely  restored,  and  he  shortly  returns  to  re- 
join the  cause  of  the  Ever  Faithful  Isle.  In  science,  as  in  war, 
Col.  Ffrench  is  equally  distinguished  ;  he  was  one  of  the  little 
band  of  explorers  who,  three  years  ago,  returned  from  the  Hon- 
duras expedition.  His  book,  'Among  the  Silver  Mines,'  was 
spoken  very  highly  of  among  certain  readers  at  the  time." 

The  article  is  lengthy,  but  Dora  reads  no  more.  She 
makes  no  sign,  except  to  frown  darkly  at  the  printed  page, 
and  hands  the  paper  back  to  her  escort.  A  glance  of  intel- 
ligence passes  between  them,  then  they  look  at  Vera,  but 
Vera  still  sits  abstracted  and  silent,  and  notices  nothing  of 
this  little  by-play. 

"  How  long  has  he  been  here  ?  "  Dora  asks  at  length,  in 
a  low  voice. 

"  Three  days,  and  by  the  oddest  chance  his  rooms  adjoin 
ours.  He  and  this  Dr.  Englehart  are  there  together.  They 
have  a  dinner  party  of  the  Cuban  sympathizers,  it  seems,  to- 
night.    It  is  impossible  buc  that  he  and  Vera  shall  meet." 

She  frowns  more  deeply,  the  fine  lines  between  the  eyes 
grave  themselves  into  little  furrows. 

"  It  is  only  a  question  of  time,  you  know,"  the  gentleman 
says,  lazily.     "  What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it  ?  " 


7 


VERA. 


231 


;s 


J 


"  I  must  see  him,"  she  says,  impatiently.  "What  a  bore  ! 
And  just  as  I  was  beginning  to  enjoy  myself.  Why  couldn't 
he  have  died  respectably  in  Cuba  when  he  was  about  it  ? 
People  have  no  business  to  go  about  with  bullets  in  them." 

**  The  bullets  were  extracted,  my  dear." 

"  He  ought  to  die — it  would  be  ever  so  much  more  con- 
venient every  way.  And  just  as  Sir  Beltran  Talbot  is  grow- 
ing so  particular  in  his  attentions,  too  !  The  other  men  of 
the  expedition  caught  fevers  and  died ;  why  couldn't  he . 
Other  men  were  shot  at  Las  Tunas  and  stayed  shot,  bui  liiis 
Ffrench " 

The  gentleman  laughs,  still  lazily,  and  shows  very  white 
teeth. 

"Widow's  weeds  would  be  eminently  becoming  to  our 
pretty  Vera,  I  think  myself.  I  know  two  or  three  men  who 
would  prefer  her  in  them — if  they  knew  the  truth.  Would 
she  don  weeds  and  crape,  do  you  think,  if  this  Ffrench  really 
went  over  to  the  silent  majority  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not.  How  absurd,  Dane  !  After  all  these 
years,  and  nobody  knowing  a  thing  of  it.  What  a  mistake 
it  was — what  a  stupid  mistake,  and  no  one  to  blame  but  my- 
self !  I  must  own  that.  lie  didn't  want  to,  and  she — but 
she  was  such  a  little  fool  in  those  days  !  " 

"  Was  she  really  ?  "  he  says,  and  glances  over  at  her  with 
interest.  "  I  cannot  fancy  our  stately  Vera  in  that  r61e,  or 
any  role  except  the  dignified,  and  uplifted,  and  gracefully 
self-possessed.  She  was  not  always  the  law  unto  herself, 
then,  that  she  is  at  present  ?  For  even  you,  my  angel,  must 
acknowledge  that  hers  is  the  ruling  spirit  of  our  menage. 
Was  she  in  love  with  Ffrench  in  the  days  when  she  was  a 
little  fool  ?  " 

"I  don't  know.  No — yes — she  was  a  child,  and  a  simple- 
ton, I  tell  you,  and  did  not  know  the  meaning  of  the  word. 
No,  she  never  was  in  love  with  him." 

"  And  yet  he  is  a  proper  fellow,  too,  to  win  a  lady's  favor 


T 


232 


VERA. 


I'k 


— better-looking  now,  I  think,  than  even  in  those  days.  He 
is  tanned  to  a  fine  sliade  of  burnt  Sienna — I  met  Iiiin  yester- 
day— and  looks  every  inch  a  soldier.  There  is  no  saying 
what  any  of  you  angelic  beings  will  do  in  any  given  case,  but 
it  seems  to  an  outside  barbarian  like  myself  an  easy  enough 
thing  for  any  woman  to  fall  in  love  with  this  dark  and  dash- 
ing Free  Lance." 

"  Vera  is  not  of  the  kind  to  fall  in  love  at  a  moment's 
notice,  Mr.  Fanshawe  !  " 

"  But  sooner  or  later  she  is  bound  to  do  it,  you  know,  and 
very  probably  make  an  idiot  of  herself  for  her  pains.  You 
were  not  of  the  kind  to  fall  in  love  at  a  moment's  notice,  my 
Dora,  and  yet " 

"I  have  done  it,  and  made  an  idiot  of  myself  for  my 
pains  !"  Dora  interrupts  with  sudden  bitterness;  "is  that 
what  you  are  trying  to  say,  Mr.  Fanshawe  ?  " 

**  No,  my  love,  it  is  not,"  murmurs  Mr.  P'anshawe,  caress- 
ing  his  blond  beard;  "far  be  it  from  me  to  stigmatize  as 
idiocy  what  has  been  the  crowning  bliss  of  my  life.  Sir 
Beltran  Talbot,  Guardsman,  is  an  ass,  or  thereabouts — a 
good  natured  ass,  I  allow,  but  still  too  profoundly  asinine  to 
aspire  in  any  case  to  the  hand  of  our  royal  sister.  Col. 
Ffrench  is  a  fine  fellow,  as  1  remarked  before,  only  unfortu- 
nately he  is  in  the  same  predicament  as  the  immortal  '  Peter, 
pumpkin  eater,  who  had  a  wife  and  couldn't  keep  her.' 
Joining  exploring  expeditions  and  turning  soldier  of  fortune, 
does  not  as  a  rule  put  money  in  your  purse.  And  our  lovely 
one  is  a  costly  luxury.  I  should  think,  now,  those  ravishing 
Paris  toilets  she  adorns  so  well,  would  cost  in  round  figures 
some  ten  thousand  dollars  a  year." 

All  this  tete-d  tete  has  been  carried  on  on  the  off  side  of 
the  carriage,  unnoticed  and  unheard  by  Vera.  She  has  her 
own  life  apart,  her  own  day-dreams  ;  her  thoughts  are  a 
sealed  book  to  Dora.  Now  they  are  entering  the  park,  and 
the  conversation  of  necessity  ceases.     But  all  through  the 


4 


\\\ 


i 


VE/iA. 


233 


slow  drive  up  and  down  the  I.ady's  Mile,  through  the  bows, 
and  smiles,  and  greetings — and  Dora  has  made  many  friends 
— she  is  still  absorbed  in  the  thought  that  she  must  and  will 
see  Colonel  Ffrench  before  Vera. 

They  dine  out  that  day,  then  follows  Covent  Garden,  after- 
wards a  ball.  Royalty  is  present  at  the  latter  ;  it  is  one  of 
the  most  brilliant  and  exclusive  of  the  season,  but  still, 
through  it  all,  Dora  keeps  that  thought  uppermost — she  must 
see  Richard  Ffrench  first.  She  watches  her  sister  closely ; 
she  is  not  so  radiant  as  usual  to-night ;  her  face  looks  pale, 
her  eyes  listless,  her  manner  is  distrait ;  she  avoids  Sir 
Beltran  Talbot  with  a  very  pronounced  avoidance.  Dora 
bites  her  lip  ;  it  is  such  a  pity — such  a  shame  !  His  "  place" 
in  Dorsetshire  is  a  place  to  dream  of;  his  rent-roll  stands 
first  in  the  baronetage  ;  his  infatuation  for  Miss  Martinez  is 
patent  to  gods  and  men.  Oh,  it  is  too  bad  !  And  all  be- 
cause of  this  Richard  Ffrench — this  wild,  wandering,  soldierly, 
good-for-nothing She  tai)s  her  delicate  fan  so  impa- 
tiently that  the  frail  sticks  snap.  She  must  see  him  ;  there 
must  be  some  way  found  out  of  this  muddle.  It  was  all  a 
mistake — she  sees  that  now,  when  it  is  too  late.  Vera  might 
be  my  Lady  Talbot  to-morrow  if  she  would.  And  she  does 
not  care  for  Ffrench — never  cared  for  him  in  that  way. 
It  is  such  a  pity  !  That  nonsensical  marriage  must  be  set 
aside. 

"  You  look  tired,  Vera,"  she  says,  some  time  in  the  small 
hours.     "  Would  you  not  like  to  go  ?  " 

Vera  is  tired  ;  she  says  it  wearily,  listlessly ;  she  would 
very  much  like  to  go,  if  Dot  is  willing. 

Dot  is  always  willing  and  brisk,  when  she  has  mischief  on 
hand.  So  the  carriage  is  ordered,  and  under  the  chill  morn- 
ing stars,  they  drive  home. 

"Now  go  at  once  to  your  room,  and  go  to  bed,"  says 
Dora,  kissing  her,  "  and  get  rid  of  that  f.igged  face  before 
the  garden  party  at  Kew,  to-morrow." 


234 


A  LOOK  BEHIND. 


*  t' 


Vera  smiles,  and  goes.  Dora  does  not  follow  her  exam- 
ple. She  hears  voices  and  laughter  in  the  next  parlor,  and 
recalls  the  dinner-party,  of  which  she  has  been  told.  Evi- 
dently it  has  not  yet  entirely  broken  up.  Prompt  decision 
is  one  of  Dora's  virtues — she  does  not  hesitate  now.  The 
hour  is  abnormal,  but  'here  is  never  any  time  like  the  pres- 
ent. She  takes  a  card  from  her  card-case,  looks  at  the  name, 
and  smiles.  The  name  printed  thereon  is  "  Mrs.  Dane  Fan- 
shawe." 

'■^  That  will  tell  him  nothing,"  she  says;  "he  does  not 
know,  of  course." 

She  takes  a  blank  one,  and  writes  in  pencil  : 

'•  You  have  not  retired,  I  know.  Will  you  overlook  the  hour,  and 
grant  me  the  favor  of  an  interview  in  my  sitting-room  ?  " 

"Theodora  Lightwood. 

"  I  sign  the  old  name,  that  you  may  recognize  it  the  more  readily." 

She  rings  for  Felician,  and  sends  that  sleepy  damsel  to 
Colonel  Ffrench.  There  is  a  cessation  of  the  gay  voices, 
and  a  pause.  But  she  is  not  kept  waiting.  The  sitting-room 
door  opens,  "Colonel  Ffrench,  madame,"  announces  Feli- 
cian, and  vanishes.  And  Dora  gracefully  comes  forward, 
and  holds  out  her  mite  of  a  hand,  all  flashing  with  je\\'els, 
and  looks  up  with  the  old  smile  into  Dick  Ffrench's  face. 


CHAPTER   II. 


A   LOOK   BEHIND. 


ERA,  obediently  enough,  goes  to  her  room  and  to 
bed,  but  long  after  the  "  sheen  of  satin,  and  glim- 
mer of  pearls,"  are  laid  aside,  long  after  the  morn- 

mg  stars  wane  and  set,  she  lies  still  and  sleepless  among  the 

pillows,  and  thinks. 


'-W. 


A   LOOK"  BE  HIND . 


235 


to 
11- 
n- 
le 


. 


Six  years  is  a  very  fair  gap  in  any  life  ;  it  is  the  record  of 
six  years  she  goes  over  now.  They  have  passed  quickly, 
they  look  a  very  brief  span,  as  she  recalls  them,  but  they 
have  brought  many  and  great  changes,  in  her  inward,  even 
more,  perhaps,  than  her  outward  lite.  It  is  a  sufficiently 
pleasant  retrospect,  undimnied  by  any  very  dark  shadow,  ex- 
cept in  those  opening  days.  But  that  first  autumn  is  a  time 
she  will  ever  remember — it  stands  apart  from  all  the  rest ; 
graven  in  pain  and  cruel  shame  on  her  mind. 

It  changed  her,  as  untroubled  years  could  never  have 
done.  Over  all  there  is  an  indistinctness  ;  dark  days  blend- 
ing into  dark  nights,  wintry  winds  sobbing  about  the  gables 
and  down  the  chimneys,  sleet  and  rain,  and  heavy  falls  of 
snow.  To  all  people  it  was  an  unusually  cold  and  stormy 
winter — to  Vera  the  sun  never  shone  once.  Always  the 
memory  of  the  words  spoken  in  the  garden,  of  the  words 
written  in  the  letter  !  Night  after  night,  lying  in  the  bleak 
darkness,  it  all  flashes  back  upon  her,  and  the  agony  of  mor- 
tification it  brings  is  known  only  to  Heaven  and  herself. 
He  thinks  of  her  as  a  girl  sliame fully  in  love  with  him,  run- 
ning after  him  everywhere,  following  him  to  Shaddeck  Light 
with  the  determined  pur[)ose  of  remaining,  and  forcing  him 
to  marry  her.  Oh  !  what  a  shameful,  shameful  thing  !  she 
sits  up  in  the  darkness  in  an  agony  that  makes  her  shake  from 
head  to  foot.  He  believes  all  that.  She  has  thought  over 
it  so  long,  and  so  incessantly,  that  not  a  shadow  of  doubt  re- 
mains. She  feels  that  she  would  rather  die  than  ever  meet 
him,  that  she  would  fall  at  his  feet  only  to  see  the  cold  con- 
tempt of  his  eyes.  Oh !  the  shame  of  it !  the  shame  of  it  ! 
and  no  human  being  but  herself  can  ever  know  how  it  really 
was. 

She  lives  two  lives  in  these  early  days  of  her  trouble — the 
night  life  of  childish,  unreasoning  misery  and  sleepless  pain  ; 
the  day  life  when  she  says  lessons,  and  spends  hours  at  the 
piano,  and  in  reading  French  and  German  with  Miss  Lan- 


Ih      f  I' 


-  .SHittMMMi^MMHI 


I         ! 


JiF" 


mi  im  \ 


236 


/f   ZCJOA'  BEHIND. 


sing.  She  grows  as  thin  as  a  shadow,  and  Dora  begins  to 
knit  her  brows  apprehensively,  as  she  watches  her.  Dora 
knows  nothing  of  all  this. 

What  is  the  matter  with  the  child  ?  Is  she  still  fretting 
over  Dick  Ffrench's  departure,  or  is  it  that  she  studies  too 
hard  ?  But  she  studies  so  easily — she  masters  every  task 
with  avidity  ;  it  is  a  keen  delight  to  her,  all  this  new  world 
of  books  and  learning.     Miss  Lansing  is  proud  of  her  pupil. 

"  She  gets  on  famously,"  she  tells  Mrs,  Charlton.  "  Your 
sister  possesses  something  more  than  average  intelligence — • 
she  is  highly  gifted.  She  masters  music  and  languages  with 
a  readiness  and  ease  I  never  saw  surpassed." 

And  Dora,  ambitious  that  Vera  shall  shine  in  intellect,  if 
not  in  beauty,  does  not  interrupt.  It  is  only  that  she  grows 
so  fast.  Tall  already  for  sixteen,  she  is  shooting  up  like  a 
young  willow,  slender,  supi)le,  graceful,  but  woefully  hollow- 
eyed  and  wan-cheeked. 

"  She  will  certainly  be  plain,"  Dora  says,  with  a  sigh  ; 
"  she  grows  thinner  and  sallower  every  day,  and  has  no  more 
figure  than  a  broomstick..  Well,  she  is  married — after  all,  it 
does  not  so  much  signify.  Dick  Ffrench  is  a  bookworm,  a 
savant^  and — great,  blundering  simpleton  ! — no  eyes  for  good 
looks  when  he  sees  them." 

Mrs.  Charlton  has  a  resentful  remembrance  of  sundry  arts, 
and  cunning  toilets,  and  pretty  looks  thrown  away  on  this 
blundering  Dick,  and  of  a  very  decided  snubbing  adminis- 
tered late  one  night  out  there  on  the  steps.  But  Vera  likes 
him,  and  as  the  poor  thing  is  going  to  grow  up  so  painfully 
plain,  it  is  just  as  well  she  is  safely  out  of  the  matrimonial 
market. 

Mrs.  Charlton  sweeps  her  sables  a  good  deal  about  tb.e 
streets  of  New  York  this  first  winter,  and  by  no  means  im- 
molates herself  to  appease  the  manes  of  the  late  departed. 
In  a  quiet  way  she  manages  to  spend  a  good  deal  of  the 
Charlton  money,  and  see  considerable  company.     She  has 


^ 


A   LOOK  DEHINB. 


237 


no  idea  of  making  a  suttee  of  herself,  or  of  being  buried  alive 
more  than  three  months  of  the  twelve  down  at  Charlton. 
She  is  a  tritle  undecided  what  to  do  with  Vera  in  the  spring, 
whetlier  to  send  her  to  school  or  leave  her  here  alone  with 
her  governess.  For  herself,  as  has  been  intimated,  she  in- 
tends to  go  abroad.  Miss  Lansing  decides  the  i)oint — she  is 
about  to  be  married,  and  tenders  her  resignation.  The  die 
is  cast — Vera  goes  to  school. 

In  all  this  time  has  nothing  been  heard  of  or  from  Captain 
Dick? 

One  day,  early  in  February,  Mrs.  Charlton  enters  the 
school-room,  a  letter  in  her  hand.  Vera  sits  there  alone 
practicing  ;  she  has  plenty  of  piano  forte  drudgery  now.  It 
is  late  in  the  afternoon,  but  ^vhat  waning  light  there  is  falls 
full  on  Vera's  face.  More  than  ever  Dora  is  struck  by  its 
dark  pallor,  its  thinness,  and  a  certain  subdued  and  repressed 
expression  that  never  used  to  be  there.  She  sits  silently 
looking  at  her  for  a  while,  until  Vera  finishes  her  piece  and 
turns. 

"  What  is  it.  Dot  ?  "  she  asks. 

Dora  holds  up  the  letter,  superscription  outward,  and 
smiles. 

"Do  you  know  that  hand  ?  "  she  says. 

The  blood  tiiishes  up  over  Vera's  face,  she  catches  her 
breath.     Oh  !  does  she  not  ? 

"  It  came  this  morning,"  her  sister  says,  "but  I  have  only 
had  dme  to  look  at  it  now.  It  is  for  me,  you  see,  but  there 
is  an  inclosure  for  vou." 

She  produces  it — "Vera"  on  the  white  paper,  and  no 
other  name.  Vera  looks  at  it  with  longing,  with  wistful 
pathos,  Vv'ith  keenest  pain.  It  brings  back  so  vividly  that 
cruel  November  afternoon,  and  all  the  agony,  and  humilia- 
tion, and  shame.  She  takes  it  without  a  word,  and  puts  it 
in  her  pocket.  She  does  not  mean  to  read  it,  she  will  never 
read  a  letter  of  his  again — there  never  can  be  anything  to 


rs  T" 


238 


A   LOOK  BEHIND. 


fj 


say  between  them  any  more — but  Dot  need  not  be  told  that. 
She  knows  what  he  thinks  of  her — that  is  enough.  What  he 
says  here,  he  does  not  mean.  No  doubt  he  i)ilies  her  ;  we 
mostly  have  a  sort  of  comi)assion  for  what  we  scorn.  No 
doubt  he  means  to  be  kind  to  her,  and  do  his  duty  by  her, 
and  go  on  sending  her  kindly  letters.  But  she  does  not  want 
duty  or  kindness  of  that  sort.  Nothing  can  alter  the  past  ; 
what  is  done,  is  done,  but  there  is  no  need  of  her  lowering 
herself  still  more.  She  will  not  read  his  letters,  she  will  not 
answer  them,  she  will  never  think  of  him  if  she  can  help  it, 
she  will  never  see  him  when  he  comes  back,  she  will  never 
be  his  wife.  But  all  that  is  still  a  long  way  ahead,  and  just 
at  present  Dot  need  not  be  told.  She  will  be  loyal  to  him, 
as  she  feels  he  will  be  loyal  to  her,  and  no  one  shall  ever  say, 
in  her  hearing,  one  word  that  is  not  in  his  praise.  With  the 
letter  in  her  pocket,  she  sits  idly  strumming  on  the  keys. 
Dora  watches  her,  quiet  amusement  in  her  eyes. 

"  Are  you  not  going  to  read  that  letter?"  she  asks ;  "or 
is  it  too  sacred  to  be  opened  in  my  presence  ?  If  it  is  any- 
thing like  mine,  my  dear,  you  need  have  no  hesitation. 
Anything  more  prosaic,  or  curt,  or  quietly  sarcastic  than  the 
congratulations  of  my  step-son-in-law  on  my  marriage,  you 
cannot  conceive.  Of  course  he  has  not  yet  heard  of  poor 
Mr.  Charlton's  death." 

Vera  says  nothing ;  she  plays  softly,  her  eyes  on  the 
keys. 

"You  never  told  me,  by  the  way,"  goes  on  Dora,  "  what 
was  in  that  farewell  note  of  his  from  New  York.  You  had 
not  read  it,  I  remember,  weeks  and  weeks  after." 

Still  Vera  says  nothing,  still  she  plays  on,  and  avoids  her 
sister's  eye. 

*'  How  secretive  and  reserved  we  are  growing  all  of  a 
sudden!"  exclaims  Mrs.  Charlton,  pettishly,  yet  half  laugh- 
ing. "  Don't  be  a  goose.  Vera.  Read  your  letter,  and  see 
what  our  dear  Dick  says.     I  have  a  right  to  know  what  my 


;fi.' 


« 


A   LOOK'  BEHIND. 


239 


Step-son  is  about,  remember.  Apropos,  though—what  shall 
we  do  with  his  letters  when  you  go  to  school  ?  " 

Vera  lifts  two  inc^uiring  eyes. 

"  You  see  you  are  going,  of  course,  as  an  unmarried  girl— 
as  Vera  Martinez,  (by  the  by,  Captain  Ffrench  does  not 
do  you  the  honor  of  putting  his  name  on  your  letter,)  and  it 
will  never  do  for  you  to  receive  epistles  beginning  '  my  dear 
wife,'  as  I  suppose  they  do  begin.  What  had  1  better  say  to 
him  about  it  ?  " 

"  Vou  had  better  say  to  him,"  answers  Vera,  speaking  at 
last,  and  speaking  with  quick  decision,  "  not  to  write  at  all  " 

*'  I  mean  it.  Dot ;  it  will  be  much  the  best.     As  you  say 
the  truth  would  come  out  if  I  received  letters  from  him   and 
-and  I  could  not  bear  it.     I  shall  have  enough  to  do  besides 
without  answering  letters.     I  have  nothing  worth  writing  of 
either,  and— and  in  every  way  I  shall  prefer  it."  ' 

Her  sister  sits  amazed,  and  looks  at  her. 

"  Vera,  do  you  really  mean  this  ?  " 

"I  really  and  truly  mean  it." 

"You    do    not   want    to    receive    letters   from    Captain 
Ffrench  ?  "  ^ 

"  I  do  not." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  answer  this  one  ?  " 
*'No." 

*' Because,"  Dora  says,  -you  could  explain  all  that  you 
know.  U  I  write  and  tell  him,  he  will  think  it  is  my  doing. 
Not  that  I  care,  for  that  matter,  what  he  thinks." 

"  1  shall  not  answer  it." 

Again  silence.     Dc  ra  sits  fairly  puzzled. 

''Well,"  she  says,  getting  up  at  last,  "  I  must  say  you  are 
very  much  altered.  Sometliing  more  than  I  know  of  has 
wrought  the  change  ;  but  keep  your  own  secrets,  if  you  like. 
I  think,  on  the  whole,  it  will  be  just  as  well  to  drop  the  cor- 
respondence until  you  leave  school.     By  that  time  both  you 


^■% 


240 


A   LOOK'  BEHIND. 


i)     ,  I   »T 


and  he  will  be  old  enough,  let  us  hope,  to  know  your  own 
minds.  The  more  you  learn,  and  the  cleverer  you  are,  the 
better  your  chance  will  be  of  pleasing  this  scientific  husband 
of  yours.  1  am  to  write  to  him  then,  and  lell  him  you  de- 
cline any  more  letters  for  the  next  two  years — until  you  have 
(juitted  school.     What  else  am  I  to  say  to  him  for  you  ?" 

"  Nothing  else,  thanks." 

*'  1  shall  send  him  your  love,  of  course  ?  "  Dora  says,  care- 
lessly, going  to  the  door. 

"A^f /"  Vera  exclaims,  so  sharnly  and  quickly  that  her 
sister  starts.  "  No  !  Remember  that.  Dot — no  sending  of 
love.  I  send  none.  I  am  well,  and  do  not  wish  to  write. 
Nothing  but  that." 

"  Oil,  very  well,"  says  Mrs.  Charlton,  slirugging  her  shoul- 
ders, "just  as  you  please.  Only  my  lord  will  not  believe 
it,  you  know.  You  never  made  any  secret  before  of  your 
open  affection  for  him." 

Vera  buries  her  face  in  her  hands.  Dora  does  not  intend 
that  last  as  a  Parthian  shaft,  but  it  goes  home  just  as  surely. 
Oh  !  how  true  it  is — how  shamefully  true  !  He  thinks  she 
is  dying  for  him,  no  doubt,  and  sends  her  this  sugar-plum  to 
solace  her  in  her  love-lorn  misery.  But  some  day  or  other 
her  turn  may  come,  and  if  it  ever  does,  he  shall  see  ! 

Early  in  May  Vera  goes  to  school,  a  school  of  her  own 
choosing — an  Ursuline  convent.  Mrs.  Charlton  sees  her 
safely  domiciled  with  the  nuns,  and  then  departs  gayly  for 
the  other  side  of  the  world  in  company  with  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Trafton.  She  has  been  eight  months  a  widow  now,  and  is 
looking  forward  to  a  speedy  shedding  of  her  sable  plumes. 
Slie  has  grown  tired  of  the  pretty  widow's  cap,  and  black, 
though  not  unbecoming,  is  di:-mal  sort  of  wear.  She  is  look- 
ing forward,  also,  to  a  right  gay  time,  for  the  Trafton' s  have 
been  abroad  before,  and  know  many  desirable  peo[)le. 

Life  is  commencing  for  Dora  Charlton  at  the  mature  age 
of  seven-and-twenty.     And  she  is  not   disappointed.     She 


A    LOOK   HEIIlXn. 


241 


own 

her 

"]y  for 

Mrs. 

nd  is 

lines. 

lack, 

look- 

Ihave 

age 
She 


thoronglily  enjoys  her  new  existence  as  a  queen  bee,  where 
hii hello  she  has  been  a  woiker. 

They  speml  M.iy  and  |une  in  I,(Miilc)n,  and  niakc  niiny 
acfiuainlances  — then  ihi.-y  go  to  Swii/i-rKuid.  l''.\oi\  wlu'ie 
the  fame  of  the  Charlton  niiUions  is  wafted  niysleiiuu:.ly  be- 
fore, and  the  pretty,  passt'c  htile  gohlenhaireil  American 
\vitU)W  is  made  nuich  of  wherever  she  goes.  It  is  charming, 
it  is  intoxicating,  this  homage,  this  flattery,  this  admiration, 
this  deterence  she  inspires.  She  sjjends  money  hke  a  royal 
])rincess — perhaps  she  is  a  trifle  vulgar  in  iicr  prodigality — 
but  as  she  spends  it  all  on  herself  and  her  whims,  and  con- 
sidering her  time  of  life,  and  that  she  has  to  make  up  for  a 
do/en  wasted  years,  she  is  not  so  greatly  to  be  blamed.  To 
see,  to  fancy,  is  to  have.  The  jjossessions  she  accmnulates 
would  freight  a  small  vessel.  Suitors  are  not  lacking — be- 
fore she  has  been  two  years  a  widow  Dora  might  have  been 
thrice  a  wife,  if  she  had  had  a  taste  for  polygamy.  Hut  she 
says  no  gayly,  even  though  one  of  the  rejected  is  a  (lerman 
(jraf,  with  two  score  quartering,  a  castle  on  the  Rhine,  a 
legion  of  dead  ancestors,  and  not  a  penny  in  his  purse. 

She  has  everything  her  heart  desires — money,  freedom, 
admiration — the  world  is  all  before  her  where  to  choose. 
Marry  !  not  she.  Her  wealth  will  swell  the  empty  coffers 
of  no  roly-poly  German  baron,  or  needy  Italian,  or  fortune- 
hunting  foreigner  of  any  kind.     A   wealthy  voung  widow  is 


the  freest  of  all  created  beings.  I.ove  !  V>\\\  !  she  is  nine- 
and-twenty  and  has  never  felt  it  ;  only  fools  and  beggars  fall 
in  love.  She  has  never  lost  an  hour's  sleep  or  a  single  din- 
ner for  the  sake  of  any  man,  and  she  never  will.  No  man 
on  earth  is  worth  one's  freedom.  Marry  !  she  laughs  at  the 
notion — the   old,  shrill,  eldritcii  lautrh.     And   still   laughing 


gayl)',  an 


d  say 


mg  no 


10  the  (lerman,  who  follows  her  like  a 


fair-haired,  fat  shadow,  she  dances  on  to  Brussels,  and  ther( 
meets  Afr.  Dane  Fanshawe. 
II 


ii 


242        'LOVE  TOOK  UP  THE  CLASS  OF  TIMEr 


CHAPTER    III. 


LOVE    TOOK    UP   THE    GLASS    OF    TIME. 


I 


MR  meets  him  in  a  commonplace  way  enough,  Brad- 
shaw  in  hand,  and  eye-glass  on  nose,  one  of  a 
crowd  of  other  American  sight-seers.  He  is  a 
Cook's  tourist,  doing  Europe  with  a  lot  of  other  "  Cookies," 
but  some  bond  of  union  must  exist  in  their  souls,  for  they 
frateri  i/,e  at  once.  Then  they  meet  again  at  the  o[)era,  then 
at  a  dinner  of  the  American  Legation,  then  at  a  ball,  where 
Dora  finds  out  that  as  a  waltzer  he  is  simply  one's  ideal  man. 
Not  that  she  lias  ever  had  an  ideal  man,  but  if  she  had  she 
rather  thinks  he  would  have  possessed  a  beautiful  blonde 
beard,  handsome,  short-sighted  blue  eyes,  a  faultless  taste  in 
dress,  a  low,  lazy  pleasant  voice,  and  be  past-master  of  the 
art  of  waltzing.  Not  a  very  high  ideal,  you  perceive,  but 
Dora  never  mounts  among  the  stars,  and  the  virtues,  the 
ball-room  gas  jets,  and  the  ball-room  accomplishments  are  as 
high  as  she  can  look. 

Mr.  Dane  Eanshawe  is  a  gentleman,  whose  voice  lingers 
l)lfca'^i;ntly  in  her  memory,  whose  smile  she  recalls  with 
another  smile  of  sympathy,  whose  compliments  come  back  to 
her  with  a  small  thrill  of  satisfied  vanity  that  is  ciuite  new  in 
her  e\i)erience  of  herself.  And  why,  she  wonders  ?  He  is 
handsome,  but  others  are  handsomer;  he  is  agreeable,  but 
others  have  been  s"  before  him  ;  he  waltzes  well,  but  so  did 
that  tall  Austrian  who  was  so  very  attentive  only  a  few 
months  ago.  Dora  is  puzzled,  but  pleased  ;  she  is  on  the 
edge  of  the  precipice  she  has  laughed  at,  but  the  edge  is 
Hower-strewn,  and  the  pitfall  hidden  in  roses.  AEr.  Ean- 
shawe takes  no  especial  pains  to  please  her  ;  it  is  not  his 


y 


with 
k  to 
|w  in 
e  is 
but 
did 
few 
the 
le  is 
''an- 
his 


''LOVE  TOOK  UP  THE  GLASS  OF  TIME:'        243 

way  to  take  especial  pains  about  anything  ;  the  weather  is 
hot,  sight-seeing,  galleries,  churches,  and  all  that,  fatiguing — ■ 
he  has  enough  to  do  in  six  days  of  Brussels  without  the 
added  labor  of  trying  to  win  a  lady's  favor.  He  is  not  half 
so  assiduous  as  some  of  the  other  men  ;  she  is  rich,  she  is 
not  bad-looking,  but  he  has  heard  she  has  forsworn  marriage  ; 
and  what  is  the  use  ?  He  thinks  this  languidly  one  day  as 
he  watches  the  devotion  of  those  other  men,  and  meanders 
by  himself  with  bored  patience  among  the  Vandycks  and 
Rubens.  Perhaps  it  is  this  very  indifference,  which  she 
sees  is  thoroughly  genuine,  that  keeps  him  in  her  thoughts. 
It  jjiques  her.  What  business  has  he  to  stand  yawning 
there,  three  yards  off,  putting  up  his  glass  to  scrutinize  one 
of  Paul  Peter's  painted  women,  and  heeding  no  more  the 
other  painted  woman  so  near  him  than  the  pillar  against 
which  he  negligently  leans  ?  Then  they  part  ;  the 
*'  Cookies "  go  one  way,  the  party  Mrs.  Charlton  is  with 
another. 

It  is  now  close  upon  the  third  year  of  her  widowhood  and 
the  Traftons  have  long  ago  returned  to  New  York.  But  the 
world  is  small,  and  i)eople  come  together  somehow  in  the 
changing  revolutions.  They  meet  a  second  time  in  Paris,  and 
visit  more  galleries  and  churches,  and  drive  in  the  Bois,  and 
walk  tiirough  the  gardens  of  the  Luxembourg,  and  dine,  and 
waltz  together  once  more.  He  s/iall  be  like  the  rest,  Dora 
vows  ;  he  shall  feel  her  power  ;  he  shall  bow  down  and  do 
her  homage  ;  he  shall  lay  aside  that  languid  Dundreary  air, 
and  wake  up  to  the  knowledge  that  she  is  still  a  young 
woman,  a  pretty  woman,  a  free  woman.  Of  the  result  to 
herself  she  does  not  stop  to  think.  Paris  is  pleasant,  and 
both  enjoy  it ;  they  have  a  community  of  tastes — they  are 
kindred  souls.  They  cross  in  the  same  ship,  and  are  in  com- 
mon pathetically  sea-sick.  They  walk  the  deck,  they  sit  in 
sunny  nooks,  they  compare  notes,  they  learn  each  other's 
histories,  they  run  up  and  down  the  old  threadbare  gamut 


244        ''LOVE   TOOK'  UP  7 HE  GLASS  OF  T/ME.'' 


M     •: 


of  flirtation.     Then  they  land,  and  once  more  their  paths 
swerve  asunder. 

"  How  is  it  that  love  corner  ? 
It  comes  unsought,  unseiit." 

Dora  wakes  up  to  the  discovery  that  hfe  without  Mr. 
Dane  Fanshawe  is  a  blank.  She  wakes  up  to  the  knowledge, 
and  is  thoroughly  disgusted.  At  her  time  of  life,  too — she 
tells  the  truth  to  herself — nearly  thirty,  and  he — he  is  just  as 
languid,  just  as  gracefully  indolent,  just  as  Dundrearyish  as 
ever  ;  not  one  whit,  she  is  positively  sure,  in  love  with  her. 
I^et  a  woman  be  never  so  vain,  there  is  an  instinct  in  these 
things  that  tells  her  the  truth  if  she  will  but  listen.  He  is 
poor,  too  ;  he  owns  it  with  a  delightful  frankness  that  char- 
acterizes everything  he  says.  He  has  no  prospects,  no  pro- 
fession, no  ability;  he  is  just  a  well-looking,  well-dressed, 
well-Miannered  nonentity,  drifting  along  on  a  legacy  lately 
left  him.  liut  what  is  all  that  ?  She  cannot  forget  him,  she 
misses  him  exceedingly,  there  is  no  one  she  meets  who  suits 
her  so  well.  She  is  impatient  and  angry  with  herself,  and 
])lunges  into  the  "vortex"  of  fashionable  life,  determined  to 
forget  him.  J3ut  after  New  Year  Mr.  P'anshawe  reappears 
on  the  surface,  and  jilunges  into  the  vortex,  too.  Not 
plunges  exactly — to  do  anything  violent  or  muscular  is  not 
in  Mr.  Fanshawe,  and  the  verb  "to  i)lunge  "  implies  both. 
He  glides  in,  and  floats  round  and  round,  in  the  old  pleasant, 
lazy,  aimless  way.  Naturally  they  meet  often,  and  it  comes 
to  pass  that  the  little  victress  pulls  down  her  colors  and  lays 
them  humbly,  and  yet  regretfully,  at  the  feet  of  the  con- 
queror. Perhaps  no  one  is  more  honestly  surprised  than  the 
conc^ueror  himself.  He  has  not  done  nuich  to  bring  about 
this  consunnnation — he  is  not  aware  that  he  has  ever  desired 
it  very  heartily  ;  still — she  is  I't'ry  rich,  a  .'1  not  so  old,  and 
not  so  bad-looking,  and — Mr.  Fanshawe  r<;ceives  the  con- 
gratulations of  his  friends  with  that  calm  su[)eriority  to  all 


t 


''LOVE   TOOK  UP  THE  GLASS  OF  TIME:'        345 


earthly  emotion  tliat  sits  upon  him  so  naturally  and  becom- 
iii.gly,  wears  his  blushing  honors  cahnly,  and  proposes.  He- 
fore  the  spring  buds  are  green  in  this  third  year  ot'  her  widow- 
hood, Mrs.  Charlton  stands  i)ledged  to  become  speetiil)'  .Nfis. 
Dane  Fanshawe. 

And  Vera  ? 

Ail  this  time  Vera  lias  i)een  in  her  convent,  and  Dora  has 
not  seen  her  once.      But  she  goes  now,  antl  V"era  is  sent  ior. 

"Wonderfully  imi)roved,  my  dear  NTrs.  Charlton — won- 
derfully improved,"  says  the  smiling  lady  su[)erior,  "  both 
physically  and  mentally.  Her  capacity  for  study  is  excel- 
lent ;  her  application  beyond  praise  ;  her  deportment  in 
every  respect  a  model  of  obedience  and  pro[)riety.  Her 
musical  nbility  is  quite  out  oi  the  CMumon — her  voice  really 
remarkable.  1  think  you  will  hnd  the  result  of  Miss  Marti- 
nez's three  years  with  us  eminently  satisfactory," 

She  does.  Vera  descends — at  least  a  tall  voung  ladv  Hies 
down-stairs  after  a  headlong  fashion  that  betokens  anytliiig 
rather  than  the  repose  of  Vere  de  Vere — cries  out  in  a 
laughing,  sobbing,  delighted  cry  "  Dot  !  "  and  tlings  herself 
into  that  lady's  arms.  It  is  Vera,  but  a  Vera  so  changed,  so 
grown,  so  improved  out  of  all  knowledge  that  Dora  ga/.i.vs  at 
her  with  eyes  of  wondering  delight.  Plain  I  Why  she  is  ahnost 
beautiful.  Thin  I  She  is  as  [)lump  as  a  partridge.  Her 
com[)lexioii  has  cleared  u|)— from  dull  sallow  it  is  [)ale  olive  ; 
her  cropped  hair  is  long  and  in  shining  abundance  ;  her 
waist  and  shoulders  leave  nothing  to  be  desired  ;  her  hands 
are  slim,  white,  and  tai^n- ;  her  air  is  self  poised  and  self-|)Os- 
sessed.  She  can  talk  easily  and  well  ;  she  has  not  in  the 
least  the  manner  of  a  school-girl.  She  is  nineteen  now,  and 
is  to  graduate  this  commencement.  Dora  is  charmed,  is 
enchanted. 

"Why,  you  pretty  child!"  she  cries;  "how  you  have 
grown,  and  how  ama/cirigly  .  "u  have  impicjved.  I  should 
never  have  known  you.     So  womanly,  so  well  rounded,  every 


246 


''LOVE  TOOK  UP  THE  GLASS  OF  TIME:' 


I"    I 


bone,  and  joint,  and  angle  gone  !  and  you  did  so  run  to 
bones  and  angles  in  the  old  days,"  says  Dora,  i)laintively,  her 
head  a  little  on  one  side. 

Vera  laughs,  the  old,  joyous,  sweet  girl's  laugh.  That, 
and  the  Muiillo  e}es,  at  least  have  not  changed. 

"  Ah  !  do  1  not  know  that  ?  How  often  1  have  mourned 
over  those  same  joints  and  angles  !  Yes,  they  have  not  starved 
me.  My  one  terror  is  now  that  1  grow  fat.  But  I  banish 
the  thought — that  way  madness  lies.  You,  too.  Dot,"  gazing 
at  her  searchingly,  "have  changed." 

The  light  of  the  spring  afternoon  falls  on  Dora,  on  the  rich 
black  silk  costume  and  costly  India  shawl,  on  the  piquant 
little  Paris  bonnet,  and,  alas  !  on  the  lost  complexion  and 
pearl  powder.  Dora  laughs,  but  shifts  uneasily  under  that 
clear,  searching  gaze. 

"  Dissipation  tells  after  a  while,  I  sui)pose,"  she  answers, 
"  and  I  really  have  been  frightfully  dissipated  this  winter. 
It  excites  me,  and  I  don't  sleep  well,  and  then — and  then  I 
take  to  chloral,  you  know,  and  that  is  bad.  1  must  go  down 
to  Charlton  early  this  year,  and  be  very  quiet,  and  try  if  1 
cannot  recuperate." 

She  sighs  impatiently,  and  turns  away  from  the  mirror  into 
which  she  has  glanced.  The  tale  it  tells  is  not  flattering. 
Those  crow's-feet,  those  fine  sharp  lines  between  the  eyes, 
those  silver  threads  among  the  gold,  the  yellow  pallor  of  the 
skin,  the  small,  transparent  hands  !  Dissipation,  excitement, 
chloral — something  is  telling  on  [)oor  Dora.  She  is  growing 
old  fast — awfully,  horribly  fast.  She  is  but  little  over  thirty  ; 
one  should  have  no  crow's-feet  or  white  hair  at  thirty,  and  yet 
here  they  are.  To  grow  old — it  is  Dora's  nightmare,  her  hor- 
ror— it  turns  her  small,  frail  body  cold  and  shivering  from 
head  to  foot  only  to  think  of.  She  is  faded  and  aged  ;  she 
has  never  realized  it  so  a|)pallingly  as  at  this  moment,  when 
she  looks  into  her  sister's  fresh,  fair  face,  with  every  youthful 
curve  and  soft  line  in  iirst  bloom. 


^ 


t 


''Lor/-:  TOOK'  rr  the  class  of  iiMi-.r      247 


r 


^  ''You  look  a  li'tle  worn,   J   think,"   Vera  says,   tomkMiy, 

pityingly.     "  You  need  quiet  and   a  long  sunnner  down  at 

Charlton,  Dot.     And  I  would  give  up  chloral  if  I  were  you. 

(lo  to  Charlton,  drink  fresh  milk  and  eat  strawberries,  drive 

about  the  country  roads,  try  sea-bathing,  and  going  to  bed  at 

nine  o'clock.      You  will  be  all  right  again  in  July,  when    I 

join  you— to  part  no  more  this  time.  Dot."     She  throws  her 

arms  about  her,  and  gives  her  a  second  hug.      "  You  dai'- 

bng  :  "   she  exclaims,  "  it  seems  so  good  to  be  with  you  again. 

Oh,  Dot,  1  have  missed  you— missed  you  in  those  last  three 

years." 

"So  I  should  hope,  dear,"  laughs  Dot,  herself  again. 
"  What  a  little  wiseacre  you  grow  !  '  Drink  fresh  milk  and  go 
to  bed  at  nine  o'clock  ! '  Is  that  the  secret  of  your  radiance, 
1  wonder?  And  so  you  have  missed  me  a  little,  in  spite  of 
all  the  ologies  and  dead  and  living  languages  ?  " 

"  More  than  I  can  say.  I  used  to  be  frightfully  Dot-sick 
the  first  year,  and  it  never  quite  wore  away.  Your  long,  gos- 
sipy letters  were  such  a  comfort." 

"1  thought  you  expected  to  have  no  time  for  letters.?" 
says  Dora,  mischievously.  "  Did  3-ou  miss  any  one  else,  I 
wonder  ?  " 

Vera's  color  does  not  rise.  Her  large,  dark,  solemn  eyes 
look  gravely  at  her  sister. 

"  Where  is  Captain  Ffrench,  Dot  ?  " 

"  No  one  seems  to  know.  He  and  I  have  not  corre- 
sponded—oh !  for  ages.  I  wrote  him,  you  know,  that  you 
did  not  wisli  to  receive  letters  from  him,  and,  as  I  warned 
you,  he  did  not  believe  me.  1  managed  to  convince  him, 
however;  since  then  1  have  heard  from  him  no  more.  He  is 
probabl}'in  Central  America  still." 

"Not  unless  he  remained  after  the  expedition.  J  read  in 
a  paper  more  than  a  week  ago  that  Dr.  Knglehart  and  his 
band  of  scientific  explorers  had  returned  to  New  York." 

"  Indeed  !  "  says  Dora,  startled.     She  looks  at  her  sister, 


.  1! 


i-^f. 


t:t 


Hi  r- 


li 


I, 


MS 


"  LOl'E  TOOK  UP  THE  GLASS  OF   TIME:' 


but  the  pretty  seriousness  of  her  face  tells  nothing.     "  Have 
you  tliought — have  you  made  up  your  mind " 

"  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  one  thing,"  says  Vera, 
throwing  back  her  head  with  a  rather  haughty  gesture,  "  that 
I  am  nothing  to  Captain  Ffrench,  and  never  can  be.  Mar- 
ried to  him  1  am — that  caiuiot  be  undone — but  that  marriage 
shall  never  force  me  upon  a  man  who  clearly  enough  gave 
me — you  all — to  understand  from  tlie  first  that  he  did  not 
want  me.  T/iat  at  least  has  been  plain  to  me  for  a  very  long 
time." 

"  It  is  such  a  }nty  !  After  all,  it  was  not  necessary,  as 
things  turned  out.  Xo  one  need  ever  have  known  of  tliat 
night  at  Shaddeck — and  you  were  such  a  young  thing — too 
young  to  be  compromised.  I  think  the  marriage  was  a  mis- 
take." 

"  1  think  it  was  a  frightful,  an  irreparable  mistake,  Dot — • 
a  mistake  that  will  utterly  spoil  two  lives.  No,  not  si)oil  — 
I  shall  never  let  it  do  that  for  me,  but  for  him — poor  fel- 
low  " 

"  Ah  !  you  pity  him,  and  we  all  know  to  what  pity  is  akin. 
Who  knows  ?  it  may  come  all  right  yet,  and  you  used  to 
be " 

"  Oh  !  Dot,  my  sister,  do  not  say  it — do  not  ever  say  that 
again.  1  have  suffered — I  have  suffered,  I  have  been  fit  to 
die  of  shame  ;  I  am  still,  when  I  think  of  it.  To  know  that 
I  was  forced  upon  him,  that  he  was  obliged  to  marry  me  ;  to 
know  how  he  nuist  have  despised  me,  as  half  fool,  half  knave  ! 
Dot  !  J)ot  !  I  go  wild  sometimes  !  If  I  could  die  to  give 
him  back  his  liberty,  to  undo  that  day's  work,  I  would  die 
this  hour  ! " 

She  walks  up  and  down  the  room,  and  wrings  her  hands. 
Her  gray  school-dress  hangs  in  straight  folds  about  her,  with 
something  of  a  classic  air — her  j)ale  face,  her  wild  words,  the 
intense  expression  of  her  eyes,  give  her  the  look  of  a  tragedy 
queen.     It  strikes  Dora  in  that  light  and  she  laughs. 


I 


t 


I 


''LOVE  TOOK  UP  THE  CLASS  OF  TIME."        24Q 


^ 


"My  dear  child,  if  you  do  it  lialf  as  well  when  you  gradu- 
ate, you  will  bring  down  the  house.  You  look  like  Ristoii 
in  Marie  Stuart.  It  is  never  of  any  use  regretting  anything 
in  that  tragic  manner  ;  hightlown  feelings  are  out  of  place  ia 
the  age  we  live  in,  and  passions,  you  know,  were  never  made 
for  the  diawing  room.  We  will  see  what  can  be  done.  If 
you  wish  it,  and  he  wishes  it,  and,  considering  everything, 
that  sort  of  marriage  should  not  be  irrevocable.  If  he  is  in 
New  York  I  will  see  him,  and  talk  it  over.  Now  1  will  say 
good-by  until  July.'' 

So  Dora  goes,  and  returns  to  the  city,  and  that  very  night, 
as  it  chances,  at  Wallack's,  sees  Captain  Ffrench.  He  comes 
in  with  some  other  men,  and  takes  his  i)lace  in  the  stalls. 
Dora  leans  from  her  box  and  gazes  at  him.  How  brown 
and  manly  he  is,  how  silently  and  gravely  he  watches  the 
})rogress  of  the  play.  He  has  not  changed  at  all,  except  that 
three  years  under  a  Southern  sun  have  dee[)ened  the  tints  of 
his  already  brown  skin. 

"Who  is  that  tall,  distinguished-looking  man?"  a  lady 
near  her  asks,  and  she  listens  curiously  for  the  answer. 
"That  is  Cai)tain  Ffrench,  of  the  Honduras  Expedition, 
famously  clever  fellow.  Have  you  seen  his  new  book, 
'Among  the  Silver  Mines  ?'  But  you  don't  read  that  sort 
of  thing." 

So  Fame  has  found  him  out — has  Fortune  ?  But  it  is  not 
likely  ;  she  is  nuich  slower  of  foot  than  her  vapory  sister. 

Next  day  Captain  Ffrench  receives  a  note  from  the  widow 
of  his  step-father.  The  result  is  that  he  presents  himself  in 
the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  and  is  ushered  into  her  pres- 
ence. Dora  winces  a  little  under  the  steadfast  gaze  of  those 
strong  gray  eyes,  and  is  acutel)  conscious  that  she  is  redden- 
ing under  her  rouge.  She  tlings  back  her  head,  defiantly — 
somehow  she  is  always  belligerent  with  this  man.  It  is  not 
exactly  a  pleasant  interview,  although  a  silent  one  on  the 
gentleman's  part.  He  lets  her  do  pretty  nearly  all  the  talk- 
u* 


^T-W 


!    .ill 


ii  iii 


250        *'LOVE  TOOK  UP  THE  GLASS  OF  TIMEV 

ing,  sitting  toying  with  a  paper-knife,  and  keeping  throughout 
the  same  silently  grave  look  that  struck  her  last  night.  After 
all  he  /.$■  changed,  too;  that  old  easy,  insouciant  dash  of  for- 
mer days  is  gone.  It  is  a  very  thoughtful,  earnest-looking 
man  who  sits  before  her. 

"  I  have  just  come  from  Vera,"  she  says,  that  defiant  ring 

still  in  her  voice ;  "it  is  from  her  I  learned  that  the  expe- 

.  i 

dition  had  returned.  She  saw  it  by  chance  in  the  news- 
papers." 

"  She  is  well,  I  trust  ?  "  he  says,  quietly. 

"Quite  well,  thanks,  and  so  grown,  and  so  different  from 
the  Vera  of  three  years  ago.  In  every  way  — in — every — 
way,  Captain  P'french  !  "she  says,  slowly  and  emphatically. 

He  looks  at  her  c^uestioningly. 

"She  was  a  child  then,  younger  than  her  years.  She  is  a 
woman  now,  and  older  than  her  years.  She  has  learned  to 
think  for  herself.  And  the  result  of  that  knowledge  is  that 
the  memory  of  her  marriage  is  spoiling  her  life." 

*'  I  never  doubted  that  the  result  would  be  otherwise,"  he 
responds,  in  the  same  quiet  tone. 

*'  It  was  a  mistake,  a  fatal  mistake — I  see  that  now.  She 
did  not  know  what  she  was  about  ;  she  regrets  it  most  bit- 
terly.    She  would  give  her  life — she  told  me  so — to  be  free." 

"I  do  not  doubt  it." 

"You  take  it  very  coolly,"  Dora  says,  stung  to  anger. 
"  Have  you  nothing  more  to  say  than  this  ?  " 

He  recalls  that  morning  at  Shaddeck  Light,  when  she 
stood  before  him,  flashing  angry  defiance,  as  she  is  doing 
now,  and  asking  him  the  very  same  question.  A  slight  smile 
dawns  on  his  face  at  the  supreme  inconsequence  of  the  female 
mind. 

"  Permit  me  to  remind  you,  madam,  that  from  first  to  last 
I  am  not  to  be  held  responsible  in  this  matter.  It  was  you 
who  insisted  it  was  my  duty  to  marry  Vera;  it  was  you  who 
asked  her  to  marry  me.     Whatever  comes  of  that  marriage, 


''LOVE  TOOK  UP  TirE  GLASS  OF  TIME^'        25  I 

it  is  you  who  shall  look  to  it !  I  positively  decline  to  have 
the  blame  shifted  on  niy  shoulders.  Why  you  insisted  upon 
it,  Heaven  only  knows.  In  the  light  of  later  events— your 
marriage  "—the  strong,  steadfast  eyes  bring  the  angry  blood 
to  her  cheeks  once  more—"  I  confess  1  cannot  see  your 
motive.  I  ani  in  no  way  a  desirable  parti.  1  am  a  i)oor 
man,  and  likely  to  remain  so.  I  have  no  time  to  make 
money,  if  I  had  the  inclination.  I  lead  a  wandering  life  ;  I 
have  no  prospects.  No,  .\[rs.  Charlton,  I  am  at  a'' loss 'to 
understand  your  object  in  insisting,  as  you  did,  on  this  mar- 
riage. And,  after  having  insisted  upon  it,  to  try  to  shift  the 
blame  of  spoiling  your  sister's  life  ui)on  me,  is  a  little  too 
much.  You  made  the  match,  Afrs.  Charlton— you  must  bear 
the  blame." 

She  sits  silent,  beating  an  angry  devil's  tattoo  with  her 
foot,  two  hot,  red  spots  on  her  cheeks.  What  he  says  is  so 
bluntly,  hatefully,  uncomi)romisingly  true. 

•'  I  should  like  to  see  Vera,"  he  suddenly  says. 

"You  cannot  see  her,"  Dora  answers,  angrily,  glad  to 
thwart  him  ;  "she  does  not  wish  to  see  you.  She  is  still  at 
school,  and  studying  hard  to  graduate.  She  refused  to  write 
to  you  from  the  first— you  may  infer  from  that  how  her  sen- 
timents have  changed." 

"Yes,"  he  says,  coolly;  "the  change  is  remarkable, 
indeed." 

"  You  intimate  that  she  was  in  love  with  you,"  Nfrs. 
Charlton  goes  on,  still  more  angrily  ;  "well,  she  never  was  ! 
It  was  a  girl's  foolish  fancy  for  the  only  young  man  she 
knew."  A  sarcastic  sn)ile  curves  Captain  Ffrench's  mus- 
tached  mouth.  "She  was  not  in  love  with  you.  Captain 
Ffrench,  either  then  or  ever." 

He  rises. 

"  I  have  an  engagement  at  five,"  he  says,  still  with  perfect 
composure.     "Is  there  anything  more,  Mrs.  Charlton  ?  " 


Are 


you  going  to  remain  in  New  York  ?  "  she  asks. 


253 


**LOVE  TOOK  rr  7//E  CLA.'iS  OF  T!ME:' 


'I 


It  ■  J^ 


\%   ! 


%t 


■k 


"  I'or  this  inonlh,  yes." 

"And  then?" 

An  amused  h)()k  ccMnes  into  his  face. 

"  Your  inti'iesl  does  nic  honor.     Then  I  go  to  Cuba." 

"To  join  the  war?"  she  cries,  eagerly,  "to  fight  for 
Cuba  r' 

"  To  fight  for  Cuba.  Figiiting  and  engineering  are  my 
trades,  you  know." 

Her  face  clears  up.  \\'hat  a  short  cut  this  is — how  easy  a 
way  of  severing  the  (iordian  knot.  A  man  goes  to  the  wars, 
and  the  chances  are  live  to  one  against  his  ever  coming 
back.  And  to  Cuba  of  all  places,  where  malaria  lays  more 
low  than  Spanish  bullets.  Climate  and  bullets  he  cannot 
both  escape,  a  beneficent  Providence  will  never  permit  it. 
This  Ffrench  is  just  the  sort  of  reckless  dare-ilevil  to  lead 
forlorn  hopes,  and  storm  breaches,  and  head  mad  cavalry 
charges. 

Co  to  Cuba  !  wliy  it  is  the  very  thing  of  ail  things  she 
would  have  desired.  Her  face  liglUs  up  so  swiftl)'  and 
brightly  that  he  laughs  outright  as  he  turns  to  go.  He  reads 
every  thought  she  thinks. 

"  Cood-by,  Mrs.  Charlton.  Say  it  to  Vera  for  me,  will 
you,  and  tell  her  not  to  make  herself  unha[)py  about  the 
foolish  past.  A  ball,  or  a  fever  may  end  it  all,  and  will  be 
better  everyway  than  the  divorce  court.   Once  more,  adieu." 

So  he  goes,  still  laughing,  but  in  his  secret  heart,  hiu  t, 
sore,  impatient.  He  does  not  blame  Vera — the  change  was 
inevitable  ;  only  that  she  should  blame  him,  should  hate  him, 
is  not  so  easy  to  bear. 

"She  was  such  a  dear  little  soul,  too,"  he  thinks,  regret- 
fully ;  "  so  frank,  so  true.  Why,  her  very  name  means 
true,  '  found  faithful.'  And  she  has  grown  up  like  her  sister, 
no  doubt  with  powder  and  paint  on  her  face,  shallow  of  soul, 
and  artificial  of  manner  !  Yes,  Cuban  fevers  or  Spanish 
bullets  are  better  than  that," 


^ 


*'Lor/-:  TOOK  UP  the  glass  of  time:'      253 


July  comes,  and  with  it  Voia  back  to  Charlton,  for  the 
first  time  since  she  h-ft  it.  (ireen  and  lovelv  it  lies  under 
the  midsummer  sun,  its  roses  in  bloom,  its  trees  in  leaf,  its 
fruits  ripening  on  the  laden  branches.  Dora  has  changed 
and  enlarged,  and  improved,  but  nothing  she  sees  is  so  nnich 
changed  as  herself.  St.  Ann's,  sleepy  as  ever,  lies  blistering 
in  the  white  heat,  t!ie  black  water  slii)i)ing  about  its  rotting 
wharves,  and  Sunday  stillness  in  its  grass-grown  streets,  as 
of  yore.  Yonder  is  Shaddeck  Light.  'I'he  tide  ebbs,  and 
the  tide  (lows,  and  the  little  gray  cabin  stands  lonely,  and 
dropping  to  decay  on  its  wind-beaten,  wave-washed  rock.  Lip 
there  is  the  white  church  on  the  hill,  with  its  tall  gilt  cross 
flashing  in  the  sun,  where  she  drove  one  August  morning, 
and  Captain  Dick  put  a  wedding-ring  on  her  tinger— the  ring 
she  has  never  worn.  Mere  is  the  summer-house  where  she 
crouched  in  her  agony  of  shame,  and  heard  the  truth  from 
merciless  lijis.  Here  is  his  room,  or  the  room  that  used  to 
be  his — it  is  Mr.  Dane  Fanshawe's  now — and  the  litter  of 
pipes  of  all  sorts,  the  litter  of  side-arms  and  hre-arms  of  all 
nations,  the  litter  of  books,  scicntitic,  mathematical,  with 
here  and  there  a  Dickens,  or  a  Thackeray,  or  an  Irving 
])eeping  out — have  all  been  swept  away  to  the  attic.  Only 
Eleanor  Charlton's  portrait,  oddly  enough,  remains,  the  head 
in  crayons,  brought  from  Shaddeck  Light.  It  hangs  over 
the  mantel,  and  smiles  with  grave  sweetness  on  the  slumbers 
of  the  man  Dot  delights  to  honor.  Vera  visits  the  room 
shortly  after  her  arrival,  a  muscular  chamber-maid  playing 
propriety  and  making  the  bed,  and  looks  at  it  musingly. 
Poor  Nelly,  gentle  Nelly,  jjatient  Nelly,  where  is  she  now  ? 
When  last  Vera  heard  from  her  she  had  gone  with  a  family 
to  travel  in  Europe,  and  perhaps  has  not  returned.  She 
stands  abstractedly  gazing  at  the  picture,  and,  still  before 
it,  Mr.  Dane  Fanshawe  finds  her,  as  he  unexpectedly 
appears. 

*'  1  thought  you  had  gone  with  Dot,"  Vera  says,  with  a 


-  I 


254 


''LOVE   TOOK  UP  'I HE  (;i..tSS  OE  TIME:' 


!•  I  i 


iHTvoiis  little  laugh,  ;uul  moving  away.  **  Shall  I  apologize 
loi  this  iiUriisioii  ?  " 

"  Xol  at  all — my  apartment  is  honored.  I  am  going  with 
Dot-— I  mean  AFrs.  Ciiarlton — but  I  foigot  my  gloves.  You 
are  looking  at  that  [)ortrait  ? "  he  says,  suddenly.  "You 
knew  her  ?  " 

"(),  very  well — dear,  quiet,  pretty  Kleanor  !  Is  it  not  a 
sweet  face,  Mr.  Fanshawe  ?  " 

lie  does  not  answer  at  once.  He  stands  and  looks  at  it, 
and  souiethiug  like  a  moody  shade  darkens  his  face. 

"  It  is  very  well  done,"  he  says,  after  that  [)ause.  "  Who 
was  the  artist  ?  " 

"  An  amateur,  I  believe,"  Vera  answers,  moving  to  the 
door.     "  Yes,  it  is  very  like." 

"  1  wonder  why  they  left  it  here  ?  " 

Something:;  odd  in  his  tone  makes  her  look  at  him.  His 
face  is  generally  most  gracefully  blank  of  all  expression,  but 
at  present  it  wears  an  expression  that  pu/./des  Vera. 

"  JU'cause,  1  sup[)ose,  it  seemed  to  belong  here  of  right. 
The  gentleman  who  sketchetl  it  lodged  in  this  room.  Jf  you 
object  to  it,  Hetsy  can  take  it  away — /  should  very  much 
like  to  have  it." 

"  Jiy  no  means,"  he  says,  hastily  ;  "  I  prefer  to  see  it 
here,  A  pretty  face,  on  IJristol  board  or  oif,  is  always  a  de- 
sirable possession.  And  1  like  the  room  as  Mrs.  Charlton 
has  arranged  it." 

Vera  frowns,  and  goes.  His  old  manner  has  quite  re- 
turned, and  she  does  not  like  that  old  manner  nor  the  man 
himself.  He  is  here  with  half  a  dozen  other  summer  guests, 
but  he  is  here  with  a  difference.  She  knows  all  ;  the  mar- 
riage is  to  take  plate  in  September,  and  she  is  jealous  and 
provoked.  The  hrst  shock  of  surprise  is  over,  but  she  can- 
not reconcile  herself  to  it.  Why  need  Dot  marry  ?  Why 
can  they  two  not  live  together  all  their  lives,  and  be  all  in  all 
to  each  other,  without  any  obnoxious  husbands  coming  be- 


7 


1 


ii 


''LOVE  Toorc  r;p  rr/E  or  ass  of  Tr^rE: 


255 


^. 


twecn  ?  And  it'  lu;  were  tlu'  ii;;ht  sort  of  ;i  man,  a  manly 
man,  not  an  idle  7'aurh'n^  caring  only  tor  l)()i's  fortmio  ! 
Vera  has  aix  image  in  her  mind,  her  "man  of  men,"  once  and 
always,  and  very  unlike  this  languid,  handsome  dandy.  'I'o 
think  of  Dot's  falling  in  lo>  ;  with  a  perfumed  coxcomb,  with 
golden  locks,  parteil  down  ..le  middle,  eyes  that  look  half 
asleep,  and  an  everlasting  lassitude  and  weariness  upon  lum 
that  makes  her  long  to  box  his  ears  ! 

"  I  wonder  if  a  sound  box  on  the  ear  7i<ould  rouse  him  ?  " 
she  thinks,  irritably  ;  "we  would  both  be  happier  and  better 
if  1  could  administer  it.  What  can  Dot  see  in  a  scented  t'o[) 
like  that  ?  " 

Dot  sees  in  him  not  a  whit  more  than  there  is  to  see — his 
thoughts  are  her  thoughts,  his  world  her  world,  his  intellect 
hers.  She  idealizes  liim  not  at  all,  \n\\  he  suits  her.  And 
she  means  to  marry  him. 

"Does  he  know  about  the  will?"  Vera  asks  one  day ; 
"  about  the  estate  going  to — Captain  FtVench  at — your — 
when  you " 

"  No !  "  Dora  says,  sharply  "  Why  should  1  tell 
him  ?  What  a  fool  1  was,  to  be  sure,  in  that,  as  in  the  other 
thing." 

"  I  think  he  ought  to  know,"  Vera  says,  slowly. 

"And  why?  It  is  no  business  of  ius.  1  am  rich,  and  I 
am  going  to  marry  him — that  is  enough  for  him.  Do  you 
think  he  is  marrying  me  for  my  money  ?  " 

Vera  is  silent — there  are  times  when  truth  need  not  be 
put  in  words. 

"  He  is  not  !  "  Dora  exclaims,  irritably  ;  "  he  is  no  for- 
tune-hunter. And  if  he  is,  it  serves  him  right  to — not  to 
know.      I  shall  not  tell  him.      Let  him  find  out  for  himself.' 

Mr.  Fanshawe  does  fnnl  out,  and  very  quickly,  naturally, 
after  the  marriage.  Me  makes  the  discovery  during  the 
honey-moon  tri|),  and  what  he  thinks  his  bride  knows  not  ; 
that  expressionless  face  of  his  stands  him  in  good  stead.      lie 


i,  Y' 


mmm 


256 


''LOVE   TOOK  UP  THE  GLASS  OF  TDIE.'' 


is  too  indolent  to  exercise  himself  much  over  the  inevitable 
at  any  time. 

'•1  must  make  all  the  more  hay  while  the  sun  shines,"  he 
thinks,  if  he  thinks  at  all.  "  She  is  rich,  and  she  is  my  wife 
now.  I  do  not  think  she  is  likely  to  live  long,  and  after  that 
— well,  after  that,  I  shall  be  able  to  say  at  least,  '  Come 
what  will,  I  have  been  blessed.'  If  she  will  have  luxuries, 
she  must  |)ay  for  them." 

This  sounds  heartless,  put  into  words,  but  Mr.  Dane  Kan- 
shawe  is  by  no  means  a  heartless  sort  of  fellow — no*-  "obustly 
bad  indeed,  in  any  way,  not  unkind,  not  inattentiv;.  not,  for 
the  matter  of  that,  without  a  sort  of  liking  for  the  rich  widow 
he  has  made  his  wife.  That  is  to  say  at  tirst,  for  w  ith  time 
comes  change.  Dora  is  exacting,  and  Dane  is  not  disposed 
to  inconvenience  himself  to  please  her.  He  si)ends  too 
mucii  money,  he  stays  out  too  late,  he  comes  home  in  the 
small  hours,  reeking  of  cigars  and  wine,  he  gives  champagne 
suppers,  he  pla)-s  monte  and  faro,  he  gambles  horribly  in 
fact.  He  has  just  one  passion  outside  his  intense  love  of 
self — gambling.  She  is  not  long  in  fmdingit  out,  and  money 
he  will  have.  I.ove  spreads  his  rosy  pinions  and  takes  to 
Ihght.  There  are  scenes,  recriminations,  tears,  hyste»ics,  in 
the  nuptial  chamber.  Dora  scolds  shrilly,  passionately  ; 
calls  him  a  brute,  stamps  that  tin\'  foo:  of  hers,  and  protests 
she  will  desert  him,  will  divorce  him,  hates  him,  wishes  she 
had  been  dead  before  she  ever  married  him.  Mr.  Kanshawe 
listens,  coolly  sometimes,  smilingly  often,  pleasantly  always, 
and  when  very  much  disguised  in — cigars — laughs,  a  feeble, 
maudlin  laugh,  or  sits  down  on  the  side  of  the  bed  and  sheds 
tears,  or  drops  olT,  in  a  limp  and  imbecile  way,  asleep  widi 
his  boots  on,  according  to  the  strength  and  quantity  of  th  j — 
cigars.  lUit  these  arc  the  intervals.  For  months  together 
sometimes  things  go  snioothly,  and  Mr.  Fanshawe  is  the 
lazily-graceful,  languidly-agreeable  gentleman  of  tourist  days, 
as  polite  to  Dora  as  though  she  were  ^ome  other  man's  wife. 


•  !i  t 


^- 


**LOVE  Tooh'  rr  the  glass  of  TiMEr      257 

And  throucrh  it  all  Mis.  Fanshawc  hides  the  dis^raccful  truth 
from  her  sister,  W-ra  has  always  disliked  the  man  and  the 
marriage,  and  that  "  I  told  )()ii  so'"  look  is  about  the  most 
discon  erliiiL^f  any  human  face  can  wear.  Dora  lias  a  jiro- 
found  respe'ct  for  her  stately  sister,  so  sensible  always,  as 
sensible  indeed  as  though  she  were  not  a  i)retl\-  woman,  and 
who  does  not  look  as  though,  under  any  combination  of  cir- 
cumstances, late  hours,  or  heady  cigars,  she  could  scold,  or 
stamp,  or  go  into  hysterics.  She  is  very  much  admired  in 
Washington  society,  that  first  winter  ;  has  a  number  of  ad- 
mirers, and  one  ofter.  They  go  to  Europe  in  the  spring — Vera 
is  a  good  American,  but  she  feels  she  must  see  Paris  before  •>\\c 
dies — must  see  Venice,  Nai)les,  Vienna,  Rome — most  of  all 
Rome.  It  is  the  dream  of  her  life,  and  Dora  indulges  her. 
Dora  indulges  her  in  all  things  ;  that  old  sisterly  love,  the  one 
pure,  unselfish  thing  in  Dora's  meagre,  selfish  life,  is  stronger 
than  ever.  It  rests  and  comforts  her  to  come  to  Vera  after  one 
of  these  stormy  scenes  with  her  indifferent  husband.  Mer 
health  is  failing,  too,  she  needs  travel  and  change  ;  the  heart 
trouble  of  her  vouth  is  more  troublesome  than  ever.  So 
they  go,  and  Vera,  happier  than  most  of  us,  has  the  desire 
of  her  heart,  and  does  not  find  it  turn  to  dust  and  ashes  in 
iier  mouth.  I'aris,  Venice,  Rome,  she  sees  them  all — she 
grows  brighter,  healthier,  handsomer,  every  day.  Jf  the 
memory  of  the  man  to  whom  she  is  married  ever  crosses  her 
thoughts  Dora  does  not  know  it.  She  never  s[)eaks  of  him. 
Jiut  taking  u[)  a  home  pai)er  one  day  she  reads  there  of  the 
capture  of  Das  Tunas,  and  among  the  list  of  mortally  wounded 
is  the  name  of  Captain  Richard  Ffrench.  He  had  fought 
like  a  lion,  and  had  f.dlen  with  a  bullet  through  the  heart. 

There  is  a  grand  ball  to  be  that  night,  antl  a  superb  toilet 
has  come  home  for  Vera,  but  -le  does  not  wear  it,  does  not 
go.  She  is  deadly  pale  when  Dora  meets  her  next,  but  if 
she  suffers  she  makes  little  sign.  Shi;  goes  on  with  Iut  lite 
just  the  same,  and  hides   her   heart  jealously  from   all  the 


w 


f   i 


258 


AT  DAIVN  OF  DAY. 


world.  But  the  next  mail  contradicts  the  report — it  is  not 
(Irath,  only  a  bad  wcjund  —  a  ball  through  the  lung,  not  the 
li  Mil.  Richard  I'Trench  is  not  dead,  or  going  to  die.  Dora 
Nv:i;(  hes  her  with  great  inti-rest  and  curiosit)^  but  is  baffled. 
l)}ing  or  li\iiig,  they  can  hardl\-  be  more  asunder  than  they 
are  ;  but  \\\\\  did  he  not  die?  It  would  be  so  much  m(^re 
comfortable  every  way  I 

In  the  si)ring  of  the  second  year  they  return  to  London, 
intending  to  remain  until  July,  and  then  go  home.  And  this 
June  night — morning  rather— Dora  Kanshawe  stands  smiling 
under  the  ciiandelier,  and  holding  out  one  diamond -ringed 
hand  to  Colonel  Richard  Caryl  J^Tiench. 


. 


)1 


i, 


I 


CHAPTER    IV. 


AT    DAWN    OF    DAV. 


HE  comes  irairmg  her  rich  dress  over  ffie  carpet, 
and  holding  out  her  jewelled  hand  "  in  her  lovely 
tsS^  silken  murmur,  like  an  angel  clad  with  wings,"  he 
thinks,  some  misty  memory  of  his  Browning  reading  in  the 
olil  Eleanor  Charlton  days,  returning  to  him.  Oidy  after  all, 
Dot  is  not  the  sort  of  little  woman  in  any  attirr  to  sug^st 
angelic  metaphor — rather  she  is  like  an  opera  fairy  in  that 
shining  jiink  silk,  and  all  those  milk\'  jj-earl  ornaments.  He 
wonders  as  he  looks  at  her — such  ripple,  and  rimglets,  and 
twists  and  i)uffs  of  Huffy  gold  hair  '.  On  whose  hea'!  did  it  all 
grow  ?  Such  glinnnering  small  shoulders,  ha4f  'trailed  in 
frosty  lace  ;  such,  a  dazzling  small  face,  iiJi  !b«»ow-u  ite  and 
rose-red  ;  such  gleaming  blue  eyes,  and  ftijch  a  ihin,  thin 
little  hand.  He  could  span  the  fragUe  '"dry  with  one  hand, 
it  seems  to  him — such  an  old  fairy,  too,  when  one  is  near. 


A  7'  DAIVN  OF  DAY. 


259 


Out  of  his  dark,  wondering  eyes  a  sudden  compassion  looks. 
Poor  little  Dot  !  It  is  a  hard  life,  tliis  treadmill  of  fashion, 
and  it  is  telling  on  her.  And  is  Vera  a  younger  copy  of 
this,  he  wonders,  as  he  holds  for  a  second  those  tiny,  ringed 
lingers,  and  if  so  what  a  pity,  what  a  pity  ! 

For  Dora,  she  looks  upon  the  stately  figure  of  a  tall  otti- 
cer  in  undress  uniform — it  has  been  in  order,  it  seems,  to  be 
semi-military  to  night  ;  she  looks  at  tiie  "  burnt  sienna " 
comi)le.\ion,  the  dark,  resolute  eyes — but  from  the  fixed  gaze 
of  tiiese  latter  rather  shrinks.  They  give  her,  they  always 
r//V/ give  iier,  an  unromfortal)le  sense  of  being  transj^arent  as 
clear  glass  to  this  man  ;  they  seem  to  look  straight  through 
the  jMiik  and  white  so  artistically  laid  on,  and  read  the 
empty  heart,  the  hard  little  soul  below.  He  disconcerts  her 
before  lie  has  o[)ened  his  li[)s,  but  siie  laughs  gayly,  and 
greets  him  after  the  airy  fashion  he  remembers  so  well. 

"  Ever  so  many  a[iologies  for  inf;erru[)ting  your  gay  party, 
and  at  this  hour.  How  surprised  you  iimst  have  been  at 
receiving  my  card.  And  at  three  in  the  morning  !  As  if  it 
were  a  matter  of  life  and  d  ^th.  Hut  vni  know  how  ini- 
pulsive  I  always  was,  and  I  grow  worse  e'-  .'ry  day.  And 
really,  I  wanted  to  see  you  so  much.     Take  a  seat." 

She  waves  him  gracefully  to  a  chair,  and  sinks  into  an- 
other, the  i)ink  silk  dro[)[)ing  into  flowing  folds,  and  the  point 
of  a  tiny  kidded  foot  peeping  out  effectively. 

"  Let  me  see — it  is  two,  yes,  three  years,  actually  th.ree, 
since  I  saw  you  last.  You  do  not  change  much  with  the 
revolving  seasons.   Captain — I    beg   your  i)ardon — Colonel 

know- 


y 


-yi 


and  your  wounds,  and  your  promotion.  Ah  !  how  terrible 
it  was — the  wounds  I  mean.  Report  said  you  were  dead. 
And  then,  again,  \\e  read  of  your  being  surrounded,  and  ca[)- 
tured,  after  prodigies  of  valor,  and  sent  a  i>risoiier  to  the 
Moio.  And  how  once  you  were  sentenced  to  be  shot  at 
daybreak,  and  only  were  rescued  at  the  eleventh  hour.     We 


^T 


11  i 


260 


A  r  DA  \VN  OF  DA  Y. 


know  all  about  yon,  you  see  ;  we  have  followed  you  through 
all  yoiu'  deeds  ot"  '  deirini^  do.'  What  a  charmed  life  you 
nuist  bear,  Colonel  I'french." 

lie  smiles  ever  so  slightly.  She  runs  on  so  ra])idly  that 
she  gives  him  no  time  to  speak,  even  if  lie  were  so  inclined. 

"  I  only  found  you  out  this  afternoon  through  a  paragraph 
in  the  Times,''  she  continues.  "  How  long  is  it  since  you 
came  to  London  ?  " 

"  Three  days." 

"  Did  you  know  we  were  here?  But  of  course  you  did 
not.     Do  you  remain  long  in  England  ?  " 

•'  That  is  uncertain." 

His  curt  replies  are  in  contrast  to  her  easy  volubility,  but 
they  do  not  disconcert  her.  She  has  got  over  her  tirst  awk- 
wardness, and  is  quite  herself  once  more. 

"  You  return  to  Cuba,  I  supi)ose  ?  Ah  !  you  fire-eaters 
are  never  satisfied  away  from  the  field  of  glory.  And  how 
about  that  shot  through  the  lungs  ?  Quite  convalescent,  are 
you  not  ?  So  far  as  appearances  go,  I  think  I  never  saw 
you  looking  better." 

It  is  a  comi)liment  he  feels  he  cannot  honestly  return. 
Certainly  those  steadfast  eyes  of  the  Cuban  colonel  see 
more  than  Mrs.  Fanshawe  intends  they  shall  see — paint, 
powder,  perfume,  pencilt-d  brows,  darkened  eyes,  false  hair, 
false  shape,  fidse  tongue,  fiilse  heart — he  sees  all.  And 
Vera  is  like  this — poor  little  Vera  ! 

"  You  did  not  know  we  were  here — how  could  you  ?  Our 
names  would  tell  you  nothing.  To  think  you  should  be  our 
very  next  door  neighbor  !  how  odd.  Did  you  visit  New 
York  before  crossing  over  ?  " 

"I  did  not." 

It  is  as  hard  to  extort  an  answer  from  him  as  though  he 
were  in  a  witness-box,  and  she  the  counsel  for  the  other 
side.  Jiut  she  will  make  him  speak  before  she  is  done  with 
him. 


Ar  DAIVX  OF  DAY. 


261 


n 


"  Then  you  have  not  heard  of  my  marriage  ?  " 
She  smiles  with  perfect  ease  as  she  says  it,  and    nhivs  co- 
quettishly  with  her  fan.     lie   looks  at  her,  but  not   in  sur- 
prise. 

"  Your  marriage,  Mrs.  Charlton " 

"  Ah  !  "  Dora  laughs.  "  J  knew  you  had  not.  Afrs.  Fan- 
shawe,  i>lease— Mrs.  Dane  Fanshawe.  It  is  nearly  two  years 
ago  now,  and  we  were  married  in  New  York.  I  sent  you 
cards,  but  of  course  you  did  not  get  your  mails  regularly, 
out  there  among  all  that  fighting.  It  is  late  in  the  day  for 
congratulations,  but  they  never  come  amiss." 

*'  You  have  my  best  wishes  for  your  happiness,  Mrs.  Fan- 
shawe." 

"  Almost  immediately  after  our  marriage  we  came  abroad, 
and  have  been  travelling  ever  since.  We  are  merely  stop- 
ping here  for  a  few  weeks  of  the  season,  and— and  because 
we  cannot  induce  Vera  to  leave." 

Her  name  has  been  spoken  at  last.  But  Colonel  Ffrench 
takes  it  very  calmly.  He  does  not  speak— he  sits  cpiiefly, 
and  a  little  coldly,  waiting  for  what  is  to  come.  He  has 
always  distrusted  this  woman  ;  he  distrusts  her  more  than 
ever  to-night. 

"Vera  is  with  us,  of  course,  and— need  I   say  it? it  is 

entirely  on  her  account  that  I  have  asked  for  this  interview. 
Living  in  the  same  hotel,  it  is  quite  impossible  but  that  you 
and  she  shall  speedily  meet.  And  before  that  meeting  takes 
place,  for  her  sake,  for  your  own,  it  is  best  I  should  speak 
to  you." 

She  is  warming  to  her  work.  He  is  not  a  very  i)romising 
looking  subject,  as  he  sits  there  with  that  impassive  counte- 
nance, but  Dora's  faith  in  herself  and  her  strategic  abilities  is 
boundless.  She  is  one  of  the  class  to  whom  all  success  is 
possible,  because  they  believe  in  th^ ,  -selves.  She  is  resolved, 
by  fair  means  or  foul,  to  give  Vera  back  her  freedom.  If 
sisterly  tact,  and  a  few  sisterly  lies,  can  do  it,  she  is  resolved 


il 


262 


AT  DAIVN  OF  DAY. 


that  Vera  shall  be  Lady  Talbot.  This  man  is  the  only  ob- 
stacle in  the  way,  and  this  man,  though  he  were  twice  as  big, 
and  brown,  and  determined-looking,  shall  soon  be  an  obstacle 
removed. 

"  Colonel  I'Trench,"  she  says,  leaning  a  little  forward,  and 
tapping  emphatically  with  her  fan,  "six  years  ago  a  great 
mistake  was  made,  one  that  I  have  never  ceased  to  regret. 
The  fault  was  mine,  1  freely  admit  that.  All  the  same, 
it  was  a  horrible  mistake,  but  I  trust  not  an  irrei)arable 
one." 

She  pauses,  but  the  calm,  attentive  face  before  her  is  im- 
passive as  a  handsome  mask.  What  she  has  said  needs  no 
rei)ly,  and  receives  none. 

"  From  the  day  of  that  marriage  Vera  changed — from  a 
frolicsome,  heedless  child  she  became  silent,  dispirited,  almost 
moody.  She  had  fancied  you  in  a  wild,  childish  fashion,  as 
little  girls  almost  always  do  fancy  young  men.  She  consented 
heedlessly  to  the  marriage,  and  the  moment  it  was  over  re- 
pented of  it.  That  repentance  has  deepened  with  every 
passing  year.  She  refused  t )  write  to  you,  though  I  urged 
her  to  do  so  ;  she  refused  to  see  you  on  your  return  from 
Honduras  ;  she  has  never — no,  not  once — spoken  your  name 
voluntarily  in  my  hearing  since  that  time.  Unjust  to  you 
this  undoubtedly  is,  but  women  do  not  reason,  you  know, 
they  act  from  their  feelings.  And  Vera's  feelings,  so  far  as 
you  are  concerned,  and  so  far  as  I  can  read  them,  for  she  is 
sensitively  secret  on  this  point,  have  undergone  a  total  re- 
vulsion. From  a  girl's  foolish  fancy  they  have  changed  to  a 
woman's  unreasoning  aversion.  Pardon  the  word,  but  the 
truth  is  always  best."' 

The  shadow  of  a  smile  dawns  and  fades  on  the  soldierly 
face.  Truth  from  the  lips  of  this  glib  little  liar  !  Slight  as  it 
is,  Dora's  quick  eyes  catch  it,  and  she  bristles  up  defiantly 
at  once.  She  sits  very  erect,  her  gleaming  blue  eyes  flash- 
ing upon  him. 


.* 


AT  DAWN  OF  DAY. 


263 


"  Pardon  me,  Colonel  Ffrench,  do  you  doubt  what  I  tell 
you  ?     If  so " 

"  Tray  go  on,  Afrs.  Charl — ,  excuse  nie,  Mrs.  Fanshawe. 
Why  should  I  doubt  it  ?  it  is  perfectly  natural,  and  precisely 
what  was  to  be  exi)ected.  So  Verj  detests  me.  Ah  !  I  am 
sorry  for  that." 

"  Detest  is  perhaps  too  strong  a  word  ;  her  liking  changed 
to  dislike,  to  intense  annoyance  at  finding  herself  bound,  bon 
gre  null  gre^  to  a  man  she  did  not  care  for.  But  it  is  only  of 
late " 

Dora  breaks  off  in  pretty  embarrassment — the  subject  is 
evidently  growing  delicate.  Colonel  Ffrench  watches  her, 
and  despite  his  seriousness,  there  is  an  unmistakable  gleam 
of  amusement  in  his  eyes.  The  farce  is  well  played,  but  what 
a  farce  it  is  ! 

"  1  scarcely  know  how  to  go  on,"  pursues  Dora,  that  kit- 
tenish confusion  still  upon  her,  "  the  subject  is  so — is  so 

Colonel  Ffrench,  you  must  not  blame  my  sister  too  nuich  ; 
remember,  our  feelings  are  not  under  our  control  '  to  love  or 
not  to  love.'     And  Vera  is  so  young,  so  attractive,  so -" 

"  Pray  do  not  distress  yourself  to  find  excuses.  Afrs. 
Fanshawe,"  says  Colonel  Ffrench  coolly.  "  A[y  wife  has 
fallen  in  love  with  another  man — that  is  what  you  wish  me  to 
understand,  1  think?" 

She  laughs  a  short,  uneasy,  angry  laugh. 

"  You  put  it  in  plain  English  at  least ;  but  that  was  always 
one  of  your  virtues,  I  remember.  Yes,  Colonel  Ffrench, 
unconsciously  to  herself,  with  pain,  witii  remorse,  with  fear 
for  the  future,  Vera's  heart  has  gone  from  her — her  woman's 
heart,  for  the  first  time." 

"  Let  us  hope  at  least  it  has  gone  into  worthy  keeping. 
Might  one  ask  the  name  of  one's  favored  rival  ?  " 

"  Presently — all  that  in  time.  Would  that  every  husband 
were  as  amenable  to  reason  as  you,  my  dear  colonel !  But, 
then,  every  husband  does  not  marry  and  desert  his  bride 


VA 


w^^ 


261 


AT  DAIVN  OF  DAY. 


under  the;  same  excei>tional  circumstances.  She  has  given 
lier  love  Id  one  in  every  way  worthy  the  gift,  to  one  who 
centres  in  himself  high  rank,  great  wealth,  ancient  lineage, 
talent,  and  title." 

"Tillt;  !  ''  int(,'rrui)ts  Richard  Ffrench,  and  smiles.  "You 
rank  the  gentleman's  perfections  in  the  order  of  ecclesiasti- 
cal processions,  1  see — the  greatest  comes  last." 

"  And,"  goes  on  Mrs.  Fanshawe,  the  angry  glitter  deepen- 
ing in  her  eyes,  "to  one  who  loves  her  truly,  i.leei)ly,  greatly. 
Tiiere  is  but  one  obstacle  to  their  perfect  happiness,  and 
that " 

"  A  by  no  means  uncommon  one,  I  believe,  in  those  up- 
lifted circles — an  obnoxious  husband.  All  this  time,  my 
deal  madam,  1  sit  in  ignorance  of  the  name  of  this  iiaragon — 
this  rich,  highly  born,  highly  bred,  titled  gentleman  who  as- 
pires to  the  hand — no — the  heart,  of  the  latly  at  present  my 
wife." 

"To  both  hand  and  heart,  Colonel  Ffrench,  with  your  per- 
mission. The  gentleman  is  Sir  Beltram  Talbot,  }iaronet ; 
his  devotion  to  my  sister  has  been  from  the  first  the  talk  of 
the  town." 

"  Ah  !  and  she  returns  this  very  ardent  devotion,  you  tell 
me  ?  And  I  am  in  the  way.  But  to  so  clever  a  lady  as 
yourself,  Mrs.  l''ansha\ve,  what  does  an  obstacle  more  or  less 
signify  ?  I  am  in  your  hands.  What  am  1  to  do  ?  You 
made  this  match — how  do  you  propose  to  unmake  it?  " 

"  Sir,  if  you  treat  this  subject  as  a  jest " 

"  Not  at  all  ;  I  am  profoundly  in  earnest.  Far  be  it 
from  me  to  show  unseemly  levity  where  the  ha4)[)iness  of  a 
young,  rich,  and  titled  heart  is  concerned !  And  Vera's 
welfare — for  old  time's  sake — is  necessarily  dear  to  me.  1 
merely  ask  for  information." 

"  There  is  such  a  thing  as  divorce,"  begins  Dora,  but  she 
has  the  grace  to  redden  under  her  rouge;  "the  marriage 
was   so  exceptional,  and — and   considering  everything — the 


AT  DAWN  OF  DAY. 


265 


years   of  your  absence — desertion^  perhaps,    we  might  call 
it " 


of 


It 
If  a 

[•a's 
i 


she 
the 


(( 


It  will  be  the  better  word  certainly,"  he  says,  with  gravity, 
"  for  a  divorce  court.  Pardon  me — is  tiiis  your  idea,  Mrs. 
Fanshawe,  or  Vera's  ?  " 

"  Vera  has  grown  up  with  some  very  strange  ideas," 
returns  Dora,  with  acerbity  ;  "  caught  from  her  Urniline 
nuns,  I  suppose.  It  is  «<;/ Vera's.  She  has  notions  of  duty, 
and  the  sanctity  of  the  marriage  tie,  and  all  that — romantic 
and  nonsensical  !  It  was  a  mistake  to  shut  her  up  for  three 
years  in  a  convent ;  I  cannot  imagine  where  else  she  can 
have  acquired  them," 

"  It  is  indeed  singular,  and  with  the  benefit  since  of  your 
excellent  training,  too.  On  the  whole,  though,  it  is  a  relief 
to  hear  she  has  those  romantic  and  nonsensical  ideas.  They 
are  old-fashioned,  I  am  aware,  and  almost  obsolete  in  fash- 
ionable life  ;  but  I  am  such  an  old-fashioned  fellow  myself, 
that  1  believe  I  prefer  them.  Still,  no  doubt  you  can  talk 
her  into  a  more  advanced  and  practical  frame  of  mind  before 
long.' 

"  I  shall  certainly  do  my  best,"  says  Dora,  with  dignity. 
**  She  shall  not  sacrifice  her  life  for  a  sentiment.  As  the 
wife  of  Sir  Keltram  Talbot  she  will  be  a  perfectly.  hai)py 
woman  ;  as  your  wife — luhat  will  she  be,  Colonel  Ffrench  ? 
A  poor  woman,  an  unloved  wife,  an  unloving  wife,  a  widow 
during  the  best  years  of  her  life,  in  the  abnormal  and  doubt- 
ful position  a  woman  always  holds  who  is  separated  from  her 
husband.  Yet  such  are  the  notions  she  has  imbibed  that  I 
am  positive  if  you  went  to  her  to-morrow  and  claimed  her  as 
your  wife  she  would  go  with  you.  Such  are  her  stringent 
ideas  of  duty  that  she  would  go  with  you  loyally  though  it 
broke  her  heart.  But  will  you  demand  this  sacrilice,  Richard 
Ffrench  ?  " 

He  is  grave  enough  now ;  the  amused  gleam  has  left  his 
eyes,  the  sarcastic  curl  his  lips. 


266 


AT  DAIVN   OF  DAY. 


1 

if 

W 

1 

'Hi 

n 

i 

^lii. 

P 

^ii' ■ 

%i ' 

= 1 '  ^  ■ 

|: 

'Sell 

''God  forbid!"  he  answers;  *' I  demand  no  sacrifice. 
Vera  was  my  little  friend  once — she  shall  never  break  her 
heart  by  act  of  mine.  If  she  can  get  her  freedom,  let  her 
get  it.  If  she  can  marry  Sir  Heltram  Talbot,  let  her  marry 
him.     lUit — I  hope  she  will  not  !" 

•*  You  hope  she  will  not  !" 

"  J^'rom  the  bottom  of  my  heart.  I,  too,  Mrs.  Fanshawe, 
am  one  of  the  sentimentalists  who  believe  in  the  sanctity  of 
marriage.  I  made  your  sister  my  wife — if  I  gave  her  little 
love,  I  have  given  her  at  least  perfect  and  unbroken  fidelity, 
in  thought  and  deed.  That  she  has  not  done  the  same  is  a 
fact  that,  though  it  may  grieve,  does  not  surprise  me,  and 
for  which  I  cannot  greatly  blame  her.  All  things  considered, 
it  is,  though  wrong,  natural.  If  she  is  capable  of  seeking 
a  divorce,  I  shall  not  lift  a  finger  to  prevent  it ;  if  she  is 
capable  of  marrying  Sir  Beltram  Talbot,  she  is  certainly  not 
fitted  to  be  wife  of  mine.  IJut  1  say  again,  I  hope  she  will 
not." 

**  If  you  mean  to  tell  her  this  when  you  see  her,"  says 
Dora,  angrily  "  we  may  as  well  end  the  matter  at  once. 
That  '  1  hope  she  will  not '  will  turn  the  scale.  She  will 
not." 

"  I  shall  not  try  to  influence  her,"  he  says,  coldly  ;  "  no 
word  of  mine  shall  turn  the  scale.  But  on  what  ground 
shall  you  apply  for  your  divorce  ?  " 

*'  On  the  ground  of  desertion — it  is  sufficient,"  says  Dora, 
her  resolute  little  face  hardening ;  "  there  are  States  in 
which  it  is  amply  sufficient.  It  will  be  necessary  for  her  to 
return  to  America,  of  course,  and  if  you  do  not  defend  the 
suit " 

She  pauses  ;  in  spite  of  her  hardihood  she  winces  under 
the  chill  contempt  of  his  eyes. 

"  There  need  be  no  publicity  unless  you  make  it,"  she 
begins  again,  rapidly ;  "no  one  in  England  need  ever  know, 
Sir  Beltram  need  not  know " 


AT  DAIVN   OF  DAY. 


267 


nder 

she 
low, 


She  breaks  off  again.  She  is  enraged  with  herself  for  her 
weakness.  Down  to  the  depths  of  her  vapid  soul  he  is  mak- 
ing her  bhish.     He  breaks  the  pause. 

"And  Vera  will  marry  any  man  like  this  !  Well  !  she  is 
changed  of  course,  but  what  a  chaiiLje  it  is  !  She  used  to  be 
true  as  truth,  brave,  honest,  pure.  Mrs.  Fanshawe,  I  am 
going  to  ask  you  a  question,  and  I  want  you  to  answer  it — 
ivhy  did  you  insist  on  my  marrying  your  sister?  " 

"  You  were  told  at  the  time  —to  condone,  to  repair  her 
imprudence  in  staying  with  you  that  night  at  Shaddeck 
Light.     Why  do  you  ask  again  ?  " 

*'  Because  1  no  more  believe  that  than  you  do.  Just  at 
first,  assailed  by  you,  by  Mrs.  Charlton,  by  my  step-Hithcr,  I 
did  for  a  little  accept  the  idea.  But  a  few  days'  reflection 
convinced  me  of  its  absurdity,  I  thought  at  the  time  that  I 
knew  your  motive,  but  since  you  became  mistress  of  Cliarl- 
ton  I  confess  1  am  all  at  sea.  Possessing  the  Charli"  1  for- 
tune, you  had  absolutely  nothing  to  gain  from  the  prcjio^ter- 
ous  marriage  you  so  strenuously  insisted  on." 

**  Shall  I  tell  you,  then  ?  "  says  Dora,  and  flings  back  her 
head.  A  sort  of  reckless,  defiant  audacity  flashes  out  of 
the  blue  eyes.  She  knows  it  is  absolutely  impossible  for 
him  to  think  worse  of  her  than  he  does,  and  her  very  dislike 
of  him  spurs  her  on  to  outrage  the  last  remnant  of  his  good 
opinion.  "  I  will.  Listen  ! "  She  leans  forward,  a  fine 
smile  on  her  thin  lips.  "  When  I  first  came  to  Charlton,  it 
was  with  the  deliberate  purpose  of  mavry'm^  you.  I  tell  you 
this,  for  your  vanity  will  not  be  elated;  you  personally  I 
never  liked,  but  I  did  like  the  heir  of  Charlton.  1  very  soon 
saw  what  lovo  you  had  to  give — and  it  never  was  worth  much 
— was  given  to  Eleanor  Charlton.  But  she  refused  you — 
she  had  another  lover,  \  ou  know,  whom  she  met  by  stealth 
in  the  grounds  after  night,  and  then  a  new  hope  dawned. 
You  and  Vera  were  fast  friends,  but  you  only  cared  for  her 
as  a  little  girl  who  amused  you,  aud  the  hope  was  not  a 


>     I 


r^ 


268 


^r  DAhVN  OF  DAY. 


ft:    I 

4::    ! 

1^ 


strong  one.  Then  came  that  night  at  Shaddeck,  and  the 
Wily  v\  js  made  easy.  I  know  you  had  Quixotic  notions  of 
honor  and  all  that,  and  simply  worked  on  them.  Mrs. 
Ch.irlton  ahclled  me  through  sheer  malevolence,  and  — you 
married  Vera.  My  motive  was  to  remain  at  Charlton  ;  as 
the  sister  of  its  mistress  I  coukl  do  so.  If  you  had  remained 
at  hoMie,  instead  of  running  off  on  that  wild-goose  chase  to 
Central  America,  a  sister  of  its  mistress  I  would  be  to  this 
day,  and  no  more.  Mr.  Charlton  would  never  have  married 
me  had  you  not  forsaken  him,  but  you  did  forsake  him,  and 
— never  mind  wiiy — he  married  me.  How  could  I  foretell 
you  would  go — how  could  I  forecast  he  would  make  me  his 
wife  and  heiress  ?  Could  I,  rest  assured  you  would  never 
have  been  troubled  with  all  that  talk  and  tears,  and  Vera 
would  still  be  free.  But  I  acted  for  the  best — I  never  was 
among  the  prophets.  As  it  is,  I  regret  my  mistake,  and 
will  do  all  I  can  to  set  it  right.  It  will  be  best  for  you,  as 
well  as  Vera,  to  get  your  Ireedom  back — some  day  I  pre- 
sume even  you  may  marry  again.  There  !  for  once  I  have 
told  the  truth,  the  whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth." 

He  rises.  Of  the  profound  disgust  he  feels  his  face  tells 
nothing,  but  he  must  go,  or  stifle.  Is  it  the  heavy  pastilles 
that  perfume  the  room,  or  odor  of  ess.  bouquet  that  hangs 
about  her,  or  the  unwomanly  confession  she  has  made,  that 
suti[bcates  him  ? 

*' Are  you  going  ?  You  will  say  nothing  of  this  to  Vera 
should  you  meet.  She  does  not  wish  to  meet  you,  remem- 
ber that,  but  if  you  ask  for  an  interview  she  will  grant 
it.  On  the  whole,  perhaps,  it  will  be  better  not  to  ask  for 
it." 

He  replies  nothing,  bnt  turns  to  the  door.  Dora  rises  in 
turn,  and  follows. 

•'  You  will  not  interfere,  then,  in  the  matter  of  the  di- 
vorce ?  "  anxiously. 


\ 


(( 


1  have  said  so. 


AT  DAiyy  OF  DAY. 


269 


"And  you  will  make  no  claim  upon  her?  Inlluencc  her 
in  no  way  at  all  ?  " 

"  In  no  way  at  all." 

**  We  go  into  lodgings  to-morrow,"  Afrs.  Kanshawe  con- 
tinues. "  I'erhaps,  after  all,  she  may  never  know  you  are 
here.  It  would  be  so  much  better.  Very  many  thanks  for 
granting  me  this  interview,  and  your  generous  renunciation 
of  all  claims.  Hut  generosity  was  always  one  of  your  most 
striking  traits,  I  remember." 

"  Cloodinorning,  Mrs.  Fanshawe." 

"  (rood-morning,  Colonel  Kfrench.  What!  will  yon  not 
shake  hands  ?  Should  you  meet  Vera,  remember  all  this  is 
strictly  entre  nous.     Ciood-morning,  and  good-by." 

He  escapes  at  last,  and  makes  his  way  down-stairs  and 
out,  to  where  a  clannny  morning  fog  wraps  the  world,  and  a 
sky  like  drab  paper  hangs  dismally  over  London.  It  is 
dawn,  a  dawn  of  mist  and  darkness  and  coming  rain,  but  it 
is  fresher,  purer,  clearer  than  the  sweet,  fetid  atmosphere  he 
has  been  breathing.  He  lights  a  cigar  to  clear  away  the 
vapors,  and  help  him  to  see  daylight. 

"In  love  with  Sir  Heltram  Talbot,  and  married  to  me. 
Wooed  by  a  baronet,  and  wedded  to  a  penniless  soldier  of 
fortune.  A  woman  without  womanly  truth,  or  delicacy,  or 
honor.  Ay  de  mi  /  my  poor  little  Vera,  it  is  hard  lines  for 
you." 


:s  in 


di- 


4^' 

1 

\h,  1 1 

W:ji 

( 

\ ' 
t 

\ 

A  SUMMER  AFTERNOON, 


CHAPTER   V. 


A    SUMMER   AFTERNOON. 


HE  threatening  rain  is  but  a  threat.  W!ien  Mrs. 
Fanshavve  opens  her  eyes  on  this  mortal  life,  the 
sun  is  slanting  in  long  golden  bars  through  the 
closed  Venetians,  It  is  high  noon,  Mrs.  Fanshuiwe's  usual 
time  for  rising.  It  was  four  this  morning  when  she  went  to 
bed ,  it  is  almost  always  four  when  she  goes  to  bed,  and  even 
at  that  hour,  and  even  with  the  aid  of  a  chloral  punch,  slum- 
ber does  not  always  come.  For  she  has  her  worries,  this 
pool  little  Dora ;  she  is  troubled  and  anxious  about  many 
things,  more  so  perhaps  than  in  the  old  days,  faint  as  a  dreaiii 
i.'ow,  in  the  show-rooms  in  New  York.  There  is  her  husband 
— her  brows  contract  always  when  she  thinks  of  him,  and  the 
fine  lines  she  hates  to  see  deepen.  There  is  her  health — in 
the  garish  morning  light  you  may  see  that  the  fair,  blonde 
skin  is  growing  dull  and  sallow,  you  may  see  sharp  iittle 
cheek  bones,  and  dark-circled,  deep-sunken  bli'e  eyes.  Dora, 
who  half  a  dozen  years  ago  never  shrunk  from  the  brightest, 
most  searching  sunshine,  shrinks  from  it  now  with  absolute 
terror — it  is  always  truest  kindness  to  place  half  the  room  be- 
tween yourself  and  her  when  you  talk.  There  is  Vera  and 
her  future  which  she  has  marred,  but  not  irretrievably  marred 
it  may  be.  With  a  little  judicious  weaving  of  the  web,  a  little 
judicious  talk  with  her  sister,  a  few  insidious  hints  thrown  out, 
her  womanly  pride  aroused,  all  may  yet  be  well.  Latent  in 
Dora's  mind  is  the  unpleasant  conviction  that  Vera  the  wo- 
man cares  as  much,  cares  more  for  Richard  Ffrench  than 
Vera  the  child.  From  first  to  last  he  has  been  her  hero,  and 
now  that  he  is  her  husband — and  exactly  the  sort  of  man  a 


de 

lie 

a, 

est, 


la 

an 

nd 

a 


A   SUMMER  AFTERNOON. 


271 


n: 


girl  of  Vera's  stamp  is  most  certain  to  admire — why,  her  task 
will  be  no  child's  play,  in  all  these  years  it  has  been  the 
rarest  of  rare  things  for  Vera  to  speak  of  bun,  and  no  syn^)- 
toni  could  be  more  dangerous — it  shows  hf  has  never  been 
out  of  her  thoughts,  and  is  too  tender,  too  sucred  a  subject  to 
be  profaned  by  words.  Now  he  is  here,  and  they  will  meet, 
and  with  the  child's  sentinienta'  ideas  of  wifely  love  and  duty, 
too— and  Sir  Bel  tram's  place  down  there  in  the  green  heart 
of  rustic  England  is  more  liJcf  one's  4ream  of  i)aradise  than 
an  every-day  baronet's  country  seat,  and  his  magnificent 
rent-roll — so  old  a  family,  too,  every  one  knows  the  pedigree 
oi  a  Talbot — and  his  passion  for  Vera  is  the  talk  of  the  town. 
All  London  considers  it  a  settld  thing.  And  to  think — to 
think  a  foolish  act  oi  hers  should  .>* md  in  the  way  of  all  that. 
It  is  true  she  did  it  for  the  best — how  was  she  to  foretell  that 
Mr.  Charlton  would  marry  her,  and  be  so  easily  influenced  in 
the  matter  of  the  will  ?  To-day  Richard  Kfrench  is  without 
fortune  or  home  to  offer  his  wife — a  name  he  has,  it  is  true ; 
but  what  is  in  a  name?  It  is  her  duty — Dora  sees  it  clearly, 
sitting  under  the  hands  of  her  maid — her  sisterly  duty  to  undo 
what  j^he  has  done.  She  warms  to  her  work  as  she  thinks  of 
it,  its  very  difficulties  stimulate  her — a  little  skilful  manoeuv- 
ring, a  few  clever  little  fictions,  with  just  the  least  grain  of 
truth  for  groundwork  in  her  ear,  and  the  thing  is  done.  Vera 
is  [)roud — is  acutely,  is  morbidly  sensitive  about  her  marriage, 
and  would  die  sooner  than  let  him  know  she  still  cared  for 
him.  It  is  the  only  thing  she  can  count  upon — that  pride  ; 
she  will  work  on  it,  and  he  has  promised  not  to  interfere.  She 
so  seldom  fails  in  anything  she  resolutely  sets  her  heart  on  — 
she  will  not  fail  nov.-.  There  will  be  that  quiet  divorce  in 
some  out-of-the-way  State,  no  scandal,  no  publicity.  Or 
perhaps  Ffrench  may  return  to  Cuba,  and  there  are  always 
the  chances  of  war — no  man  can  (  ai  ry  a  charnied  life  forever. 
It  would  be  even  better,  as  he  himself  said,  than  the  divorce. 
Dora  has  no  idea  of  being  blood-thiisty  at  all,  but  she  sits 


2/2 


A   SUMMER  AFTERNOON. 


X  I 


'       ! 


iii 


and  calmly  counts  the  possibilities  of  Richard  Ffrench  being 
shot  over  there — sighs  for  it  indeed  while  Feiician  does  her 
hair.  It  would  simpHfy  matters  so  !  And  then  there  would 
be  a  marriage  with  which  New  York  would  ring,  and  next  year, 
a  tall,  (lark-eyed,  Spanish-looking  Lady  Talbot  would  be  pre- 
sented at  court 

"  A  note  for  niadame,"  says  Feiician,  answering  a  tap  at 
the  door,  and  Dora's  dream  of  the  future  fades  out  suddenly, 
and  she  comes  back  with  a  start  to  the  present.  The. note  is 
*.i  her  husband's  hand  and  is  a  careless  line  to  say  he  is  not 
to  be  expected  to  do  escort  duty  that  afternoon.  He  is  going 
with  a  party  of  Americans — old  friends  of  his — nobody  his 
wife  would  care  about  —  to  Hampton  Court,  and  he  is  hers, 
D.  F. 

A  frown  knits  together  Mrs.  Fanshawe's  forehead.  It  is  a 
common  enough  thing — it  is  altogether  too  common  a  thing 
for  ^^r.  Dane  Fanshawe  to  absent  himself  at  the  last  mo- 
ment from  dancing  attendance  on  his  wife  and  sister-in-law. 
A  party  of  Americans  to  Hampton  Court !  She  crushes 
tile  note  viciously  and  llings  it  from  her;  she  does  not 
believe  one  word  of  it.  Innocent  sight-seeing  is  not  much 
in  Dane  Fanshawe's  line — it  is  so  likely  he  will  si)end  all 
this  long,  warm  afternoon  staring  at  the  dim  old  court 
beauties,  hanging  there  in  the  dreary  palace  rooms.  His 
wife  knows  better,  and  she  forgets  her  sister,  and  her  i)lottings, 
and  her  eyes  flash  fire.  Every  day  he  neglects  her  more  and 
more,  and  his  marked  attentions  in  other  quarters — does  she 
not  see  it  all  ?  Last  night  he  left  her  at  the  opera,  and  has 
not  since  returned.  Hampton  Court  indeed  !  Dora  knows 
better,  and  a  passion  of  impotent,  jealous  wrath  sweeps 
through  her.  As  if  gambling  were  not  bad  enough,  but  that 
this  last  insult  must  be  offered  !  Neglecting  the  wife  to  whom 
he  owes  everything,  and  devoting  himself  to  the  wives  of 
other  men  !  A  fool  she  may  have  shown  herself  in  her  sis- 
ter's marriage,  but  not  half  so  great  a  fool  as  in  her  own. 


I'- 


A   SUMMER  AFTERNOOIV. 


2/3 


"  Freedom — men's  homage — happiness — what  did  I  see 
in  him  to  resign  all  that  for  his  sake?"  she  thinks,  bitterly. 
•'  Truly,  while  1  am  about  the  divorce  business  it  might  be  as 
well  to  seek  for  two.  It  will  come  to  it  some  day.  His 
gambling  debts  I  will  not  pay,  his  insolent  neglect  I  will  not 
bear.     Let  him  look  to  it,  if  he  tries  me  too  far  !" 

Her  maid  brings  her  breakfast — chocolate,  a  roll,  and 
a  little  bird.  Mrs.  Fanshawe  has  no  appetite  ;  that  is  why, 
])erhaps,  she  grows  so  fearfully  thin.  All  the  art  of  dress  and 
corset  maker  is  required  to  hide  it,  and  even  made  up  with 
the  best  skill  of  these  artists,  and  an  accomplished  Paris 
maid,  used  to  making  the  most  of  very  liitle,  it  is  a  small, 
fragile-looking  creature  she  sees  in  the  mirror.  She  grows 
worn  and  old — a  shudder  creeps  all  over  her  small  body  as 
she  realizes  it.  It  never  comes  home  to  her  so  sharply  as 
when  she  stands  beside  Vera,  so  fresh,  so  strong,  so  full  of  life, 
so  beautiful  in  her  young  vitality.  That  reminds  her — where 
is  Vera  ?  Her  good-morning  kiss  generally  awakes  Dora  from 
her  feverish  forenoon  slumbers,  but  it  is  now  one  and  she  h;is 
not  appeared.    She  glances  languidly  at  Felician  and  incjuires. 

"  AfaiSy  madame.  Mademoiselle  Vera  departed  more  than 
two  hours  ago  with  the  groom,  for  her  morning  canter  in  the 
park,  and  has  not  yet  returned." 

This  is  nothing  new,  and  Dora  thinks  no  more  about  it. 
But  something  new  has  occurred  during  that  morning  canter 
along  the  road  after  all.  As  she  sweeps  along,  her  servant 
behind  her,  glancing  carelessly  at  the  faces  along  the  railing. 
Vera  suddenly  sees  one  that  sends  the  blood  with  a  cole', 
startled  rush  to  her  heart.  It  is  the  face  of  a  tall,  sunburned, 
soldierly  man,  leaning  lightly  against  the  rail,  and  talking 
with  two  or  three  others. 

Their  eyes' meet — in  his,  surjirised  admiration,  but  no  rec- 
ognition ;  in  hers — but  those  brilliant  eyes  keep  their  owner's 
secrets  well.  One  of  the  men  lifts  his  hat  as  she  f.ashes  by, 
and  looks  after  her  with  a  smile. 

12* 


274 


A  SUMMER  AFTERNOON. 


■') 


'  -v 


% 


"The  handsomest  woman  in  IvOndon,"  he  says.  ''  In  all 
your  wanderings,  under  Oriental  and  Occidental  suns,  Colo- 
nel Ffrench,  you  must  have  seen  some  beautiful  faces. 
Have  you  ever  seen  fairer  than  that  ?  " 

"She  is  a  pretty  woman,  and  she  rides  well,"  is  the  Cuban 
colonel's  careless  answer,  "and  much  more  like  a  Spanish 
Dofia  than  one  of  your  fair  countrywomen."  , 

'*  She  is  not  my  countrywoman  ;  she  is  yours,  I  fancy. 
Well,  and  how  did  you  manage  to  give  your  guerrillas  the  slip, 
colonel  ?     It  must  have  been  an  uncommonly  close  finish." 

He  resumes  his  interrupted  anecdote,  and  Vera  quits  the 
park,  and  returns  honie.  He  does  not  know  her.  It  gives 
her  a  pang,  so  keen,  so  hot,  so  sharp,  that  she  is  indignant 
with  herself.  He  does  not  know  her,  her  very  face  is  blotted 
out  of  his  memory  ;  while  she — meet  him  how,  when,  or 
where  she  might — she  knows  she  would  instantly  recognize 
him.  She  has  changed,  it  is  true  ;  six  years  have  wonder- 
fully transformed  her,  and  yet,  if  he  cared  for  her,  if  he  ever 
had  cared  for  her,  would  not  some  subtle  intuition  tell  him  it 
was  she  ?  He  has  not  altered  much  ;  the  deep  gray  eyes 
look  graver,  she  thinks,  than  of  old  ;  he  is  browner,  more 
resolute,  and  more  soldier  like  than  the  Captain  Dick  of 
Shaddcck  Light.  Old  days,  old  thoughts,  old  memories, 
ciowd  back  upon  her — she  lives  over  again  that  brief  bright 
summer  that  transformed  her  whole  life.  That  wild  August 
night,  that  night  of  lightning  and  rain,  returns  to  her ; 
that  night  she  can  never  forget,  that  she  would  blot  forever 
from  her  life  if  she  could,  is  before  her.  To  atone  for  her 
folly,  driven  to  it  by  Dora,  he  made  her  his  wife,  despising 
her  all  the  while,  and  now  he  is  here,  and  he  looks  in  her 
face  with  calm,  unconscious,  unrecognizing  eyes.  Her 
heart  has  not  ceased  its  quickened  beating  when  she  stands 
before  her  sister,  and  Mrs.  Fanshawe's  searching  e^^es  read 
something  more  than  usual   in  the  excited  gleam  of  Vera's 


dark 


eyes. 


A   SUMMER  AFTERNOON. 


275 


|lier  ; 
tever 

her 
ising 

her 
iHer 

Liids 
iread 


\ 


"  You  have  been  in  the  park,"  she  says.  "  I  don't  see 
that  it  has  benetited  you  much.  You  are  pale,  and  your 
eyes  look  strangely.     Has  anything  happened  ?  " 

'*  Nothing  has  happened,"  Vera  answers,  a  little  tremor  in 
the  clear  voice.     "  It  is  time  to  go  and  dress  for  the  garden 
party,  I  suppose.     1  wish  we  were  not  due,  Dot — must  we 
really  go  ?  " 

"  Since  when  has  it  become  a  grievance  to  go  to  garden 
parties,  my  dear,"  inquires  Dora.  "  If  my  memory  serves, 
no  longer  ago  than  yesterday  you  were  looking  forward  with 
pleasure  to  an  afternoon  spent  in  Lady  Hammerton's  lovely 
gardens.     And  Sir  Beltram  is  sure  to  be  there." 

Vera  turns  away,  the  color  rising  over  her  dark  face. 

"  Dora,"  she  says,  imperiously,  *'  understand  me  !  Once 
for  all,  J  want  you  to  dr&[)  the  subject  of  Sir  Beltram  Talbot. 
If  I  were  free,  it  would  still  be — but  I  am  not  free — who 
should  remember  that  better  than  you  ?  " 

It  is  the  first  time  in  all  these  years,  that  anything  like  a 
rei)roach  has  passed  Vera's  lips.  But  she  is  full  of  irritated 
pain,  longing,  impatience — she  hardly  knows  what,  and  the 
mention  of  the  baronet's  name  is  as  "  vinegar  ui)on  nitre." 
Dora  shrugs  her  shoulders. 

"  The  more's  the  pity  ;  it  was  a  horrible  blunder,  but  even 
the  best  of  us  will  make  blunders.  As  to  your  freedom, 
why,  freedom  is  a  thing  that  may  be  regained.  Vera,"  she 
leans  forward,  *'  do  you  know  who  is  here  ?  " 

There  is  a  pause.  Vera  is  standing,  her  back  turned,  look- 
ing out  at  the  sun-lit  London  street. 

"  Do  you  know  who  is  here  ?  "  iMrs.  Fanshuwe  repeats. 

"  Yes,  Dot,  I  know." 

The  answer  is  very  low,  the  f\ice  Dora  cannt)t  see.  There 
is  another  momentary  pause.     Dora  is  rather  surprised. 

'*  Since  when  have  you  known  ?  " 

"  Since  yesterday  afternoon,  before  we  went  to  drive.  I 
have  seen  him  twice," 


w    • 

..^' 

i 

'?. 

u 

i 

,   , 

ii 

•l 

1 

'•■ 

276 


A   SUMMER  AFTERNOON. 


Once  more  a  pause.  "  So,"  Dora  thinks,  **  the  murder  is 
out.  And  she  has  seen  him  twice.  Now  I  wonder  if  I  am 
going  to  have  more  trouble  than  I  expected  with  this  busi- 
ness.    Vera  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  hear." 

"Turn  roimd  then;  I  hate  talking  to  people's  backs. 
Where  have  you  seen  Colonel  Ffrench  ?" 

*'  Once — a  glimpse — yesterday  in  passing  his  room,  with- 
out knowing  it  was  he,  and  this  morning  in  Hyde  Park." 

"  Did  he  see  you  1  " 

"Yes." 

*'  Did  he  know  you  ?  " 

"  No  ! "  says  Vera,  and  turns  abruptly  away  once  again. 

Dora  sits  silent.  Shall  she  speak  now  ?  She  glances  at 
her  watch — after  two — and  they  have  to  dress.  No,  there  is 
no  time. 

"Vera,"  she  says,  and  rises  and  goes  over  to  her  sister 
and  clasps  her  hands  on  her  shoulder,  *'  tell  me  this — you 
never  used  to  have  secrets  from  Dot — do  you  still  care  for 
Richard  Ffrench  ?  " 

But  Vera  frees  herself,  turning  very  pale. 

"  Pardon  me.  Dot,"  she  answers,  coldly  and  proudly  ; 
**  that  is  a  question  even  you  have  no  right  to  ask,  a  question 
I  certainly  shall  not  answer.  What  is  done  is  done — I  have 
never  reproached  you  for  your  share  in  it,  and  I  never  mean 
to.  You  acted  for  the  best,  I  am  sure.  But  one  thing,  two 
things  I  must  exact — that  you  will  let  me  alone  about  Sir 
Beltram  Talbot,  whom  from  tirst  to  last  I  have  never  by  one 
word  or  look  encouraged,  and  that  you  will  from  this  hour 
drop  all  interference  between  Richard  Ffrench  and  me.  On 
this  I  insist,  anil  you  will  i>ardon  me,  Dot,  if  I  seem  to  speak 
harshly.  Harsh  I  have  no  wish  to  be,  decisive  I  must  be. 
I  know  it  was  you  who  forced  him — against  his  will — to 
marry  me,  a  poor  little  ignorant  half-grown  girl,  too  young, 
and  far  too  much  of  a  child,  to  understand  either  your  mo- 


m 


A   SUMMER  AFTERNOON. 


277 


tives  or  his.  Oh  !  Dot,  Dot,  why  did  you  do  it  ?  I  turn  hot 
with  shame  from  head  to  foot  when  I  thinic  of  it.  Hut  all 
that  is  past  j  I  am  no  longer  too  young  or  too  ignorant  to 
judge  for  myself,  to  decide  for  myself,  and  I  say  to  you,  inter- 
fere no  more.  Bring  about  no  meeting  between  Colonel 
Ffrench  and  me,  leave  him  to  himself.  If  he  wishes  to  seek 
me,  if  iie  has  anything  to  say  to  me,  I  am  to  be  found  ;  but 
I  tell  you  honestly,  Dot,  if  you  seek  him  out,  or  try  to  inlhi- 
ence  him  in  any  way,  J.  will  never,  to  the  last  day  of  my  life, 
forgive  you." 

She  turns  to  go  as  she  says  it.  Her  eyes  flash,  her  voice 
rings  ;  there  is  resolute  decision  in  every  word  she  speaks. 
On  the  threshold  she  pauses.  "When  you  can  spare  Feli- 
cian,"  she  says,  in  a  different  tone,  "send  her  to  me,  please  ; 
I  will  be  ready  in  about  an  hour." 

Then  she  goes.  Dora  shrugs  her  shoulders,  and  smiles 
sarcastically. 

"  High-tlown  as  usual.  The  chance  encounter  this  morn- 
ing has  evidently  upset  her  imperial  highness,  or  is  it  [)i(iue 
that  he  did  not  recognize  her  ?  I  foresee  1  shall  have  no 
easy  matter  to  manage,  and  there  can  be  no  shadow  of  doubt 
but  that  she  is  as  fond  of  him  as  ever.  liut  1  never  fail  in 
anything  I  set  my  heart  on,  and  1  have  quite  set  my  heart 
on  seeing  you  Lady  Talbot,  my  dear,  ridiculous,  tragic  Vera, 
and  Lady  Talbot  you  yet  shall  be." 

Something  more  than  an  hour  after,  the  sisters  are  rolling 
along  behind  a  pair  of  black,  higti-stepi)ing,  silver-harnessed 
horses,  to  Hammerton  Park.  Mrs,  Dane  Fanshawe,  under 
her  white  gossamer  veil  and  rose  silk  parasol,  looks  about 
three-and-twenty,  some  yards  otf.  Miss  Martinez  in  white 
muslin,  all  delicate  needlework  and  lace,  the  sort  of  dress 
which  all  the  gentlemen  who  see  her  this  afternoon  will  ex- 
tol for  its  charming  simplicity,  and  which  none  but  a  young 
duchess  or  an  American  heiress,  could  afford  to  wear,  looks 
beautiful,  high-bred,  and  rather  bored.     All  dangerous  topics 


»     > 


2/8 


A   SUMMER  AFTERNOON, 


-  1   ! 

I! 


1 J 


are  ignored,  it  is  not  well  to  begin  a  garden  party  on  a  July 
afternoon  by  losing  one's  temper,  and  Dora  foresees  she 
is  likely  to  lose  her  temper  more  than  once  before  the  affaire 
Ffrench  is  adjusted  to  her  liking.  On  their  return  she  will 
open  the  siege,  and  meantime  here  they  are,  and  here  is  Sir 
Keltram,  wi'h  all  a  lover's  eagerness  and  glad  delight  in  the 
greeting  he  gives  them.  Vera  bites  her  lip  as  she  meets 
that  glance,  and  reads  the  story  it  so  plainly  tells.  She  feels 
pained,  angered,  humiliated  by  her  false  position.  She 
seems  to  herself  a  living  lie,  the  wife  of  a  man  whose  name 
she  does  not  bear,  who  cares  nothing  for  her,  who  looks  at 
her  with  cold,  unrecognizing  eyes.  Time,  that  can  help  most 
ills,  only  intensifies  this  ;  every  day  she  feels  the  deception, 
the  falsity,  the  absolute  disgrace  of  her  position,  more  and 
more.  That  fatal  night  at  Shaddeck,  that  fatal  forced  mar- 
riage. For  a  moment  she  feels  as  if  it  were  impossible  to 
forgive  Dora  for  what  she  has  done — she  breaks  off  suddenly 
with  a  great  start.  A  man  has  just  passed  her.  Lady  Ham- 
merton  on  his  arm,  and  she  recognizes  him  instantly — Dr. 
Emil  Englehart. 

*'  Do  you  know  him  ?  "  Sir  Beltran  asks  in  surprise  ;  '*  he 
is  one  of  the  Cuban  patriots.  They  seem  to  be  Lady  Ham- 
merton's  latest  hobby,  very  fine  fellows  too — dined  with  them 
last  night,  this  Dr.  Englehart,  Colonel  Ffrench — Ah  !  here  is 
another,  General  Lopez.  By  the  by,  you  are  a  Cuban,  are 
you  not,  Miss  Martinez  ?  Curious  I  never  thought  of  it 
before." 

"  My  father  was  a  Cuban,"  Vera  answers,  and  looks  with 
a  smile  at  General  Lopez.  He  is  a  mahogany-colored  little 
officer,  the  centre  of  a  listening  group,  and  is  evidently  deep 
in  dramatic  narrative.  He  gesticulates  wildly  as  he  talks, 
shoulders,  eyebrows,  hands,  all  in  motion  together. 

"The  gallant  general  is  fighting  his  battles  over  again," 
says  Sir  Beltran ;  "  he  is  rabid  in  his  hatred  of  Spain  and 
Spaniards,  is  as  brave  as  a  small  lion,  and  has  had   no  end 


/ 


I 

i 


,1 


A   SUMMER  AFTEKMOON. 


279 


of  hair-breadth  escapes.  So  have  they  all,  for  that  matter, 
especially  Ffrench,  who  is  more  like  a  paladin  of  the  chivalric 
era,  than  an  every-day  soldier.     Hear  the  general." 

"  The  Spanish  warfare  upon  the  Cubans  has,  throughout 
the  contest,  been  a  reproach  to  civilization  in  its  devilish 
brutality,"  the  Cuban  general  is  excitedly  exclaiming  ;  "  it 
consists,  on  the  part  of  the  Spaniards,  in  the  fiendish  murder 
of  any  hapless  prisoners  they  may  take,  brutal,  coldblooded, 
atrocious  murder.  Witness  the  massacre  of  the  Virginius. 
Spain  will  never  conquer  Cuba  ;  the  very  stones  will  rise  and 
fight  for  freedom,  if  we  lay  down  our  arms." 

"  Yes,  general,"  a  pensive  voice  says,  "all  that  is  a  matter 
of  history,  but  it  is  a  digression  at  the  same  time.  How  did 
you  and  Colonel  Ffrench  escape  ?  You  were  kneeling  in 
the  trench  a  moment  ago,  your  eyes  bandaged,  waiting  to  be 
shot,  you  know." 

There  is  a  slight  laugh,  and  the  fiery  little  general  comes 
back  to  his  story.  All  listen  intensely.  Vera  listens  breath- 
lessly. It  is  a  story  of  dreadful  danger,  of  mortal  peril,  and 
Richard  Ffrench  and  himself  are  the  heroes,  a  story  of  death 
and  daring,  of  cruel  suffering  and  invincible  "pluck."  And 
as  Vera  stands  and  hears,  the  old  passion  of  pity  and  tender- 
ness that  sent  her  flying  to  Shaddeck  Light  that  memorable 
evening  so  long  ago,  stirs  within  her  again.  An  unspeakable 
longing  to  meet  him,  to  speak  to  him,  to  see  recognition  in 
his  eyes,  thrills  her.  Is  he  here  this  afternoon  ?  It  seems 
likely  enough  since  Dr.  Englehart  and  General  Lopez  are. 
What  if  they  meet  ? 

She  breaks  otf  and  falls  into  a  day-dream,  long,  sweet,  and 
full  of  wonderful  possibilities.  Afar  oi^"  a  band  is  playing, 
the  charming  music  floats  to  her,  softened  by  distance,  and 
blends  with  her  dreams.  Many  people  move  about  her,  but 
for  the  moment  she  is  quite  alone,  even  the  ubiquitous  Sir 
Beltran  is  nowhere  to  be  seen.  Presently  voices  reach  her, 
and  she  awakes,   and  moves  on.     She  is  passing   down  a 


I 


1 1 


'A 


280 


A   SUMMER  AFTERNOON. 


narrow  walk,  lined  with  briery  roses,  and  one  of  the  long 
spiky  branches  catches  her  dress.  She  tries  to  disentangle 
it,  but  in  one  hand  she  holds  her  parasol,  in  the  other  a 
boiHiuet,  and  the  thorny  branch  holds  her  fast.  The  voices 
draw  nearer,  men's  voices.  "  Permit  me,"  one  says,  and  with 
a  slight  smile  stoops  and  frees  her.  He  lifts  his  hat,  gives 
her  a  slight  glance,  and  i)asses  on. 

Is  there  a  fatality  in  these  things?  This  is  twice  to-day, 
and  this  time  they  aie  so  near  that  they  touch,  and  still  the 
same  indifferent  glance  of  a  total  stranger.  I^r.  Englehart  is 
with  him,  and  it  is  he  that  turns  and  looks  back,  a  puzzled 
expression  on  his  face. 

"Where  have  I  seen  eyes  like  those  before?"  he  says. 
'•Who  is  that  young  lady,  Dick  ?  " 

"  Haven't  an  idea.  1  have  seen  her  before,  though — this 
morning  in  the  park.  A  compatriot  of  ours  1  believe,  and 
handsome  enough  for  a  duchess." 

"  Handsomer  than  any  duchess  I  have  seen  yet,  and — by 

Jove  !  I  have  it.    Ffrench,  is  it  possible  iv?//  don't  see  it ." 

He  stops  and  looks  back  again  in  sudden  excitement.  *'  By 
Jove  ! "  he  exclaims  and  laughs,  "  here  is  a  romance  if  you 
like.  Difk,  does  diat  lady  remind  you  of  no  one  you  have 
ever  seen  ?  " 

**  Of  no  one,"  calmly  responds  Richard  Ffrench.  "  Of 
whom  does  she  remind  _)'<?/// " 

*'  Of  your  wife,  by  Jove  !  of  the  little  black-eyed  girl  you 
married  six  years  ago.  On  my  soul,  1  believe  it  is  the  same. 
They  are  in  London,  are  they  not  ?  " 

Richard  Ffrench  stops  and  looks  at  his  friend.  Then  he 
looks  back.  She  has  gone  on,  but  is  still  in  sight,  walking 
slowly.  His  dark  face  pales  under  its  bronze.  On  the  instant 
conviction  flashes  upon  him.  Changed,  changed  out  of  all 
knowledge,  grown  from  slim  girlhood  to  statel3i  womanhood, 
but  the  eyes,  the  deep,  lustrous,  lovely  eyes,  are  the  same. 
Can  it  indeed  be  Vera  ? 


) 


A  SUMMER  AFTERNOON. 


281 


Of 


He  turns  to  go  after  her,  has  gone  half  a  dozen  paces, 
when  he  as  siuhionly  stops.  For  at  the  other  end  of  the 
walk,  appear  Mrs.  Dane  Kanshawe  and  Sir  Hcltran  Talbot. 
All  that  Dora  has  said  to  huii  Hashes  back  ;  she  has  fallen 
in  love  with  this  man,  she  seeks  a  divorce  to  free  her  froni 
him,  that  she  may  marry  the  baronet.  See  her  he  must,  but 
not  now,  not  here. 

He  rejoins  his  friend.  Enjjjlehart  looks  at  him  keenly. 
He  thinks  Dick  has  been  rather  a  fool  in  the  affair  of  his 
marriage  ;  but  as  his  marriage  has  never  interfered  with  his 
freedom  or  made  him  the  less  a  bon  camarade,  he  has  hith- 
erto overlooked  it. 

*'  You — you  are  sure  it  is  she  ?  "  he  asks,  hesitatingly. 

"Quite  sure." 

"And  you  did  not  know  until  I  spoke?" 

"I  did  not." 

"  Why  did  you  not  join  her  ?  Oh  !  I  see.  Dick,  your 
little  wife  has  grown  into  a  very  b>iaiitiful  woman." 

"  Very  beautiful." 

He  echoes  the  words  of  his  friend  automatically.  He 
feels  bewildered.  To  have  met  Vera  and  not  known  her  ! 
Has  she  known  him?  Yes,  he  is  sure  of  it.  He  recalls  the 
glance  she  gave  him  this  morning,  and  just  now  as  he  freed 
h>  •  dress  and  turned  away.  She  was  very  pale,  too.  And 
shv  'oves  Sir  Beltran  Talbot  and  wishes  to  njarry  him. 
Last  night,  listening  to  perfumed,  painted  Dora  Fanshawe, 
it  had  seemed  to  him  he  did  not  care — much,  but  he  is  con- 
scious of  a  sharp,  angry  contraction  of  the  heart  now.  Dear 
little  Vera  !  how  frankly,  fearlessly  fond  she  was  of  him  once. 
He  recalls  her  as  she  stood  by  his  side  that  morning  at  Shad- 
deck  Light,  and  defietl  them  all  for  his  sake.  He  recalls  her 
as  they  parted  last,  crushed,  humiliated,  trembling  with  pain 
and  shame.  And  thi^  is  little  Vera,  this  tall,  j^roud-looking, 
calm-eyed,  brilliant  woman,  who  knows  him  and  makes  no 
sign.     It  may  be  Vera,  but  not  the  Vera  he  has  known. 


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282 


A   SUMMER  NIGHT. 


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I  I 


Colonel  Ffrench  is  very  distrait  and  silent  all  the  rest  of 
that  day.  His  eyes  wander  everywhere,  but  they  do  not  see 
what  they  search  for.  For  a  lion,  he  roars  very  little,  to  the 
silent  indignation  of  Lady  Hammerton  and  her  fair  friends. 
He  is  so  handsome,  so  like  a  hero  of  romance,  he  has  the 
true  air  noble,  they  arc  so  generously  prepared  to  admire 
everything  he  says,  and  behold  !  he  says  nothing,  is  grave, 
silent,  preoccupied.  The  Fanshawe  party  have  gone,  he 
discovers  presently — Sir  Beltraii  Talbot  with  them.  Miss 
Martinez  bad  a  headache,  they  have  left  thus  early  on  her 
account.  Colonel  Ffrench  listens,  and  says  little,  but  he 
thinks  he  understands.  It  is  to  avoid  him,  lest  he  should 
seek  her  out,  and  make  a  scene,  and  the  baronet  perhaps 
discover  the  truth.  Well,  they  know  hiui  very  little  if  they 
fear  that.  In  all  these  year?  her  image  has  been  with  hini, 
but  always  the  image  of  a  wild-eyed,  black-haired  gipsy,  the 
Vera  who  rowed  with  him  in  the  Nixie,  who  sang  for  him  in 
the  lamp-light,  the  Vera  who  cooked  his  supper  at  Shaddeck 
Light.  He  smiles  as  he  tries  to  reconcile  that  Vera  and 
this — that  Vera  whom  he  stands  pledged  to  engage  as  his 
cook,  this  Vera,  exquisitely  dressed,  proud,  and  silent,  a  fair 
and  gracious  lady.  Little  Vera  !  little  Vera — his  wife,  and 
this  is  the  way  they  meet  at  last  1 


CHAPTER  VI. 


A   SUMMER    NIGHT. 


!'i 


IS  it  chances  it  is  not  Miss  Martinez's  headache  that 
sends  the  Fanshawe  parly  home,  although  Miss 
Martinez's  sister  makes  that  the  pretext  for  a  sud- 
den retreat.  Superb  in  her  fine  young  vitality,  Vera  never 
has  headaches,  nor  aches  of  any  sort,  but  Dora  has  caught  a 


A   SUMMER  NIGHT. 


283 


that 

Miss 

sud- 

lever 

ht  a 


glimpse  of  a  certain  sunburned  Cuban  colonel,  and  scents 
danger  afar  off.  He  here,  of  all  people,  and  the  hero  of  the 
hour,  his  name  on  many  lips.  He  and  Vera  will  meet,  and 
that  meeting  is  the  very  last  thing  Dora  wishes  to  take 
place.  Some  time  or  other  it  is  inevitable,  but  she  will  ^et 
ahead  of  fate  itself,  she  will  bring  Vera  to  a  proper  frame  of 
mind,  by  a  httle  judicious,  sisterly  chat.  So  she  is  seized  all 
in  a  moment  with  sudden  and  serious  indisposition,  lays  hold 
of  Sir  Beltran,  and  on  his  arm  goes  in  search  of  her  sister. 
To  Dora's  eye  it  is  rather  a  striking  tableau  that  greets  her 
as  she  enters  the  rose  path.  Vera  coming  slowly  towards 
her,  a  sort  of  cold  pallor  on  the  dusky  warmth  of  her  face, 
and  following  her,  Richard  Ffrench.  Have  they  then 
sjjoken  ?  has  the  dreaded  meeting  taken  place  ?  Is  she  too 
late  ?  One  hurried  glance  tells  her  no.  He  stops  at  sight 
of  them,  Vera  never  turns  around,  and  in  a  moment  she  is 
borne  out  of  danger,  but  Mrs.  Fanshawe  does  not  breathe 
freely  until  they  are  safely  in  the  carriage,  and  driving  rap- 
idly homeward. 

They  are  a  silent  trio,  even  Dora  can  be  silent  when  there 
is  nothing  to  be  gained  by  talking.  She  lies  back  among 
the  cushions,  and  under  the  rose  silk  parasol  watches  Vera 
askance.  But  there  is  not  much  to  be  read  in  that  still, 
thoughtful  face — in  those  large  serious  eyes — Vera  will  never 
wear  her  heart  on  her  sleeve  for  daws  to  pick  at.  The 
baronet  is  silent,  too  ;  he  is  beside  Miss  Martinez,  and  suffi- 
cient unto  the  hour  is  the  bliss  thereof. 

Mr.  Dane  Fanshawe,  recHning  negligently  among  the 
cushions  of  a  divan  in  his  wife's  dressing-room,  lays  down 
the  paper  he  is  reading,  and  looks  up  with  a  friendly  and 
conciliatory  smile  on  his  listless,  handsome  blonde  face. 

"  l^ack  so  soon,  my  angel  ?  You  must  have  left  Lady 
Hammerton's  uncommonly  early.  I  trust  you  found  it 
pleasant  ?  " 

"  And  I  trust  _jw^  amused  yourself  well  at  Hampton  Court. 


■■■  i 


I  h 


1  1 

■!  % 

.|; 

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11 

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r  'H 


284 


//   SUMMER  NIGHT. 


Are  there  any  new  beauties  on  the  walls  or — off?  Are  there 
any  new  trees  in  Bushy  Park  ?  And  you  lunched  at  the 
'Mitre,'  no  doubt,  with  your  unsophisticated  backwoods 
friends.  Did  IVIrs.  EUc-rton  make  one  of  the  party  ?  '  de- 
mands Dora,  changing  suddenly  from  the  intensely  sarcastic 
to  the  spitefiill}' jealous. 

Mr,  Fanshawe  ])ulls  his  long  light  mustache,  and  lifts  his 
fair  eyebrows  wearily. 

"  No,  my  angel.  Mrs.  Ellorton  was  not  of  the  party,  I  re- 
gret to  say.  You  do  that  very  charming  actress  the  honor  of 
being  jealous  of  her,  don't  you?  1  wonder  why  ?  1  have 
never  paid  her  any  very  pronounced  attention,  and  beyond 
dining  with  her  once  or  twice  at  the  *Star  and  Garter' " 

Mrs.  Fanshawe  turns  her  back  upon  him,  and  sweeps  out 
of  the  room.  Mr.  Fanshawe  watches  her  for  a  moment,  with 
amused,  sleei)y,  half-closed  eyes.  Then  he  rises  on  his  elbow 
and  calls. 

«  My  love." 

No  reply. 

"  My  dearest  Dora." 

Silence. 

"  My  angel." 

Dora  removes  her  bonnet,  gloves,  and  lace  drapery  with 
compressed  lips. 

"  Do  look  here  one  moment  please,"  says  Mr.  F^anshawe, 
plaintively,  "don't  be  angry.  I  really  have  been  boring 
myself  to  death,  at  Hampton  Court,  with  the  people  I  men- 
tioned. Met  them  by  chance,  and  couldn't  shake  them  off, 
I  assure  you — awful  bore,  you  know.  On  my  word  I  should 
greatly  have  jireferred  going  with  you  and  our  lovely  sister 
to  the  garden  party,  because  you  see  I  discovered  that 
FYrench  and  Lopez,  and  all  those  Cuban  fighting  fellows 
were  to  be  there,  and  you  were  sure  to  meet.  And  the 
meeting  could  not  fail  to  be  more  amusing  to  a  dispassionate 
looker-on  in  Vienna,  like  myself  behind  the  scenes,  than  any 


\re  there 
d  at  the 
ckwoofls 
y  ?  ■'  de- 
sarcastic 


A   SUMMER  NIGHT. 


285 


vaudeville  ever  ])layed.  Come  petite  an^^e,  chase  away  those 
clouds,  smile  once  more  u[)on  your  slave,  and  tell  me  all 
about  it.      Did  the  bride  and  bridegroom  meet?" 

Dora  relents.  After  all,  she  is  very  fond  of  jier  husband, 
why  else  has  she  married  him  ?  and  siie  is  dying  to  make  a 
confidant  of  some  one.     And  if  he  really  has  not  been  with 

that  odious  actress 

"  I  see  you  have  brought  Sir  Eeltrad  Talbot  home  to  din- 
ner," resumes  Mr.  Fanshawe  in  his  slow  trahiante  voice. 
"He  dined  with  the  Cubans  here  last  evening — told  me 
about  it — admires  PTrench  beyond  everything.  Believe  me, 
my  angel,  when  I  say  1  laughed.  It  is  really  the  richest  joke 
of  the  season." 

"1  can  quite  believe  it,"  retorts  Mrs.  Fanshawe;  "the 
misfortunes  of  our  neighbors  are  always  the  richest  of  jokes, 
I  understand.  As  it  chances,  however,  even  your  keen 
sense  of  the  ridiculous  would  liave  been  at  fault  here.  There 
has  betn  nothing  to  laugh  at ;  so  you  see  you  have  lost  noth- 
ing after  all  by  being  a  martyr  to  your  country,  and  escort- 
ing your  American  cousins  to  Hampton  Court." 
"They  did  not  meet  then  ?  " 

"  They  met,  yes,  that  is  to  say  she  has  seen  him  twice,  three 
times.     But  she  has  not  spoken  to  him.     /,  however,  have." 
•'  Ah  !  "  says   Mr.  Fanshawe  with  more  interest   than  he 
generally  shows ;   "when?" 

"Last  night,  after  our  return.  The  dinner-party  you 
speak  of  was  still  in  progress.  And  I  sent  for  him  here." 
"  Ah  ! "  Mr.  Fanshawe,  repeats,  "  and  he  came  ?  " 
"  He  came  at  once,  and  we  had  a  long  and  very  serious 
talk.  I  laid  the  case  before  him.  I  spoke  of  the  change  in 
Vera  ;  and,  by  the  by,  Dane,  you  who  never  knew  her  six 
years  ago,  have  not  the  faintest  conception  how  greatly  she 
is  changed.  I  spoke  of  Sir  Beltram  Talbot,  and  his  love  for 
her,  of  the  dreadful  blunder  of  the  marriage,  of  Vera's  love 
for  Sir  Beltran " 


i'^*' 


f.  ^3 


^ 


(• 


♦  • 


286 


A   SUMMER  NIGHT. 


;!   i 


'..I 


Mr.  Fanshawe  lies  back  among  the  pillows,  and  laughs. 

"  You  told  him  that  !  What  a  plucky  Amazon  you  are, 
my  Dora,  and,  by  Jove  !  what  a  pleasant  thing  to  tell  a  man 
— that  his  wife  is  in  love  with  another  fellow,  and  *  please 
may  she  have  a  divorce  and  marry  him?'  By  Jove,  you 
know  ! "  Mr.  Dane  Fanshawe  laughs  in  his  lazy  pleasant 
way  again. 

"  1  see  nothmg  to  laugh  at,"  says  Dora,  austerely ;  "  nei- 
ther did  Colonel  Ffrench." 

"  I  should  think  not,  by  Jove  !  "  parenthetically  from  the 
gentleman  on  the  divan, 

*'  We  discussed  the  matter  in  all  its  bearings,  and  I  will  do 
him  this  justice  :  no  one  could  have  been  more  amenable  to 
reason  than  he.  He  acknowledged  the  justice  of  all  my 
remarks." 

'•  My  angel,"  says  Mr.  Fanshawe,  and  looks  at  his  wife 
with  anuised  eyes,  "  tell  me  this.  Do  you  mean  to  say 
Colonel  Ffrench — this  fire-eating  free-lance — sat  before  you 
while  you  told  him  his  wife  wanted  to  marry  another  man, 
and  acknowledged  the  justice  of  your  remarks  ?  My  hear- 
ing is  not  usually  defective,  but  I  really  think  it  must  have 
deceived  me  just  now." 

"What  is  there  extraordinary  in  it  if  he  did?  It  was  an 
exceptional  marriage,  it  is  an  exceptional  case  all  through. 
He  admitted  that  nothing  I  told  him  surprised  him  ;  he  said 
it  was  exactly  what  he  had  expected,  and  that  if  Vera  wanted 
a  divorce,  he  would  not  lift  a  finger  to  prevent  it." 

"Ah  !"  remarks  Mr.  Fanshawe,  for  the  third  time,  " //" 
Vera  wants  a  divorce.  But  if  I  am  any  judge  of  my  nearest 
and  dearest,  it  is  not  Vera  who  wants  the  divorce,  but  Dora. 
I  am  rather  short  of  ready  money  at  present,  but  I  don't 
mind  laying  you  a  sovereign  or  two  that  when  you  propose 
the  D.  C.  to  Vera,  she  refuses.  Come  !  I'll  give  you  five  to 
one  on  it." 

"  Excuse  me,   Mr.  Fanshawe,  I  neither  bet  nor  gamble ; 


A   SUMMER  NIGHT. 


287 


(( 


nei- 


iiible  ; 


one  of  that  kind  is  enough  in  any  family.  It  is  very  possi- 
ble she  may  refuse,  just  at  fust — all  the  same,  it  shall  be  an 
accomplished  fact  by  this  time  next  year.  Now  as  I  sec  you 
are  dressed,  suppose  we  drop  this  discussion,  and  you  join 
Sir  Beltran  in  the  drawing-room,"  says  Dora,  decisively. 

Mr.  Fanshawe  rises  negligently,  and  still  vastly  amused. 
To  him  the  whole  thing  is  a  most  capital  joke. 

"  I  only  w^ish  I  knew  this  Cuban  colonel,  I  would  most 
certainly  have  invited  him  to  join  our  select  little  family 
party  to-day.  He,  and  Vera,  and  the  baronet,  would  make 
a  most  interesting  and  unicpie  group.  I  wonder  if  he  knew 
her  when  they  met  ?  She  must  have  changed  a  good  deal 
in  six  years." 

Mr.  Fanshawe  saunters  away,  after  his  usual  indolent  fash- 
ion, to  the  drawing-room,  where  he  finds  Vera,  and  Vera  alone. 

"Oh!  sweetest,  my  sister,"  is  Mr.  Dane  Fanshawe's 
greeting,  "  what  have  you  done  with  our  guest  ?  I  am 
under  orders  to  entertain  Sir  lieltran  Talbot,  and  was  told 
I  should  find  him  here." 

"  He  has  been  called  away  for  a  moment,"  Vera  an- 
swers, coldly.  She  does  not  like  her  brother-in-law,  she 
never  has  liked  him.  The  "  languid  swell  "  is  a  species  of 
biped  she  especially  detests,  and  a  languid  swell  Mr  Fan- 
shawe is,  or  nothing.  Why  Dora  ever  married  him  is  the 
chronic  wonder  of  her  life  ;  she  wonders  now  for  the  thou- 
sandth time,  as  he  stands  smiling,  complacent,  self-satisfied, 
here  beside  her.  Compare  him  with  other  men,  with  Sir 
Beltran  Talbot,  who  enters  on  the  instant,  with  Richard 
Ffrench,  but  no,  even  in  thought  there  can  be  no  comi)ari- 
son  there.  There  are  times  when  she  hates  him,  this  self- 
sufficient,  shallow,  empty-headed  coxcomb,  who  makes  Dot 
so  miserably  unhappy  with  his  vices  and  follies  ;  who  drifts 
through  life,  aimless,  purposeless,  lazy,  caring  for  himself, 
and  his  own  comfort  and  pleasure,  and  fornothing  else  under 
the  sun. 


FT 


288 


A  SUMMER  NIGHT. 


I  i  <i 


'I 


They  look  a  cozy  little  family  party  enough,  sitting  in  the 
pleasant  after-glow  of  tlic  sunset,  over  a  most  excellent  din- 
ner, two  pretty,  richly  dressed  women,  two  well-looking, 
well-bred  men.  liut  perhaps  of  the  cpiartet,  Mr.  Dane  Fan- 
shawe,  with  his  subtle  sense  of  humor,  is  the  only  one  who 
really  enjoys  himself.  It  is  not  half  a  bad  joke  to  sit  here 
and  watch  the  admiration  in  poor  Sir  Heltran's  eyes,  Dora's 
smiling  graciousness  and  encouragement,  Vera  "  keeping 
herself  to  herself,"  hundreds  of  miles  away  in  spirit,  with 
Ffrench  no  doubt.  It  is  almost  better  in  the  drawing-room 
after  dinner,  with  Dora  at  the  piano,  interpreting  Chopin 
and  Strauss,  Sir  Beltran  beside  Colonel  Ffrench's  wife,  and  he, 
the  amused  looker-on  and  listener,  lying  in  silent  enjoyment 
of  it  all.  If  his  wife  brings  about  the  consunmiation  she  so 
devoutly  wishes,  in  the  face  of  all  that  chill,  delicate  frosti- 
ness,  why  then  his  wife  is  a  cleverer  little  person  than  he 
gives  her  credit  for.  Miss  Martinez  is  one  of  those  uplifted 
sort  of  people  who  are  a  law  unto  themselves  ;  she  is  very 
fond  of  her  sister  ;  but  where  her  heart  or  her  conscience  is 
concerned  (and  she  is  the  sort  of  a  woman,  unfortunately 
rare,  to  possess  both),  there  will  be  a  line  which  that  sister 
must  not  cross. 

Two  hours  later.  Vera  sits  in  her  room,  glad  it  is  over, 
glad  to  be  alone,  glad  to  be  away  from  Sir  Beltran  Talbot's 
too  ardent  glances,  from  his  too  tender  words.  The  lace 
draperies  hanging  over  the  windows  flutter  in  the  damp 
night  wind,  for  a  fog  from  the  river  is  rising.  Two  or  three 
wax  tapers  light  the  room  with  a  soft  glow,  and  reveal  her 
face,  pale  and  more  wearied  than  Vera's  bright  face  often 
looks.  But  a  tender  musing  half-smile  is  there  too,  and  her 
thoughts  are  not  of  Sir  Beltran  Talbot.  He  does  not  know 
her — well,  that  is  not  strange  ;  there  is  not  much  resem- 
blance between  the  girl  of  sixteen  and  the  woman  of  twenty- 
two.  But  he  wll  find  her  out,  she  feels  sure  of  that;  to- 
morrow, at  the  latest,  he  will  come,  and  then a  tap.    Dora, 


!»«.—- 


A  SUMMER  NIGHT. 


289 


^  in  the 
lent  din- 
looking, 
me  Faii- 
one  who 

sit  here 
,  Dora's 
keeping 
irit,  with 
ng-room 

Chopin 
,  and  he, 
joyment 
1  she  so 
,te  frosti- 

than  he 

uplifted 
;  is  very 
ience  is 
tunately 
It  sister 

is  over, 

;aU)ot's 

le  lace 

damp 

»r  three 

real  her 

e  often 

and  her 

t  know 

resem- 

twenty- 

lat ;  to- 

Dora, 


i 


in  a  white  dressing-gown,  all  her  floss  silk  fair  hair  undone, 
and  hanging  over  her  shoulders,  enters  without  ceremony. 

"  What  !  "  she  says,  "  not  begun  to  undress.  What  are 
you  mooning  about,  I  wonder,  as  you  sit  here,  with  that 
ridiculous  smile,  all  by  yoiu'self  ?  You  used  never  have  any 
thoughts  or  secrets  from  me,  but  now — Vera.  1  wonder  if 
any  one  in  the  world  ever  changed  as  utterly  in  six  years  as 
you?     1  don't  mean  alone  in  looks — in  everything." 

She  seats  herself  in  a  low  chair,  and  ga^ces  curiously  at 
her  sister. 

"  They  say  we  all  turn  into  somebody  else  every  seven 
years,  don't  they  ?  You  certainly  have,  and  I  don't  like  that 
somebody  else  half  as  well  as  your  former  self.  What  a  wild, 
silly,  ignorant  child  you  were  ;  what  a  dignified,  wise,  self- 
repressed  young  woman  you  are  !  I  wonder  what  has  done 
it — your  marriage  ?  " 

"Perhaps,"  Vera  says,  slowly.  "Yes,  my  marriage  and — 
what  followed.  The  revelation  of  how  and  why  Richard 
Ffrench  made  me  his  wife  came  so  quickly,  stunned  me  so 
utterly — 1  think  1  have  never  felt  quite  the  same  since." 

Her  face  darkens  as  she  recalls  it.  Has  there  ever  been 
a  day  since  that  that  parting  scene  has  not  been  before  her, 
that  Mrs.  Charlton's  harsh  and  false  words  have  not  sounded 
in  her  ears  ? 

"  A  more  venomous  old  toad  never  lived,"  says  Dora, 
trenchantly;  " what  a  happy  release  it  must  have  been  for 
Eleanor  when  she  died.  By  the  by,  I  wonder  where  is  Elea- 
nor? And  that  reminds  me — do  you  know  what  I  found  the 
other  day  hidden  among  some  things  of  Mr.  Fanshawe's  ? 
A  portrait  of  Eleanor  Charlton." 

Vera  looks  up  silently.  Nothing  that  Dora  can  find  in 
Mr.  Fanshawe's  possession  will  greatly  surprise  her,  but  this 
comes  near  it. 

"  Eleanor's  portrait  ?     Are  you  sure  ?  " 

"Perfectly  sure — do  you  think  I  could  be  mistaken? 
13 


290 


A   SUMMER  NIGHT. 


■%A 


'■i   *. 


■W-:^ 


i'-  - 


■ 

'k 

^^, 

■ji 

And  there  were  her  initials  '  E.  C.,'  New  Orleans,  and  the 
date  of  the  year — the  very  siunnier  we  spent  togetiier  at 
Charlton." 

Vera  is  silent.  Where  Dane  Fanshawc  is  concerned 
silence  is  always  safest  anil  best. 

**  1  taxed  him  with  it,  of  course,"  pursues  Dora,  in  an  irri- 
tated tone,  "  and,  of  course,  also  got  a  few  plausible  lies  in 
return.  He  couldn't  for  the  life  of  him  remeniber  how  the 
photograph  had  come  into  his  possession — he  had  never 
known  the  original.  Bah  !  1  never  believe  a  word  he  tells 
me." 

Mrs.  Fanshawc  allows  no  sentiment  of  false  delicacy  to 
prevent  her  pouring  her  marital  grievances  into  her  sister's 
reluctant  ears.     She  feels  she  must  tell  or  die. 

"  Where  is  Mr.  Fansnawe  ?  "   Vera  asks,  after  a  pause. 

*' (jone  out,"  his  wife  answers  with  a  short,  contemptuous 
laugh.  "When  is  Mr.  Fanshawe  //^/gone  out?  I  dare  say 
his  man  will  help  him  ui)  to  bed  somewhere  in  the  small 
hours.     Vera,  what  a  fool  I  was  ever  to  marry  that  man  ?  " 

The  small,  worn  face  looks  woefully  pinched  and  pale, 
haggard  and  gloomy  as  she  says  it.  It  is  a  very  aged  fairy 
that  sits  here  in  the  glow  of  the  wax  lights,  making  this 
wifely  confession — a  very  old  and  faded  fairy.  Vera  looks 
at  her,  tender  pity  in  her  eyes. 

"  Yes,  Dot,"  she  says,  compassionately,  "  I  think  myself 
it  was  a — mistake.  Do  you  know  I  have  often  wondered 
la/iy  you  married  him.  You  are  not  of  the  sort  to  ftiU  in  love 
easily,  and  if  you  were,  what  is  there  in  Mr.  Fanshawe  to  fall 
in  love  with  ?  " 

"Ah!  what?"  Dora  says,  bitterly.  "Do  you  think  I 
never  ask  myself  that  question  ?  He  has  neither  brains  nor 
ability,  heart  or  feeling  for  any  human  creature.  He  has  a 
handsome  face  and  wears  his  clothes  well,"  with  a  short, 
mirthless  laugh  ;  "  I  suppose  it  must  have  been  for  those  two 
excellent  reasoris.     People  conimit  suicide  under  temporary 


A   SUMMER  NIGHT. 


291 


mcl  the 
;lhci  at 

iicerncd 

an  iiri- 

lies  in 

how  the 

1    never 

he  tells 

icacy  to 
r  sister's 

ause. 
inpluous 
dare  say 
le  small 
nan?" 
k1  i)ale, 
red  fairy 
inn  this 
a  looks 

myself 
ondered 

in  love 
e  to  fall 

think  I 
lins  nor 
e  has  a 
short, 
ose  two 
nporary 


aberration  of  mind — do  you  suppose  they  never  marry  under 
the  same  ?  " 

A  smile  dawns  on  Vera's  face — a  sort  of  wondering,  scorn- 
ful smile. 

"'  And  Alnlallahgrew  to  l>e  a  man,'  "  she  ([notes  from  the 
Turkish  Kgenil,  "  '  and  was  so  handsome  that  a  hundred 
maidens  died  for  love  of  him.'  Well  !  it  is  done  I  know,  but 
I  never  shall  understand  it — why  any  woman  in  her  senses, 
and  past  sixteen  will  marry  a  man  for  his  face  alone.  At 
sixteen,"  says  Miss  Martinez,  retrospectively,  "we  are 
fools  enough  for  anything.  When  a  man  sjjoils  his  life 
for  the  sake  of  two  blue  eyes  and  a  i)retty  complexion,  we 
take  it  as  a  matter  of  course — he  belongs  to  the  privileged 
sex,  to  whom  all  folly  is  possible  and  pardonable  ;  but  for  a 
woman " 

"  And  a  woman  of  thirty — don't  forget  to  add  that,''  puts  in 
Mrs.  Fanshawe,  with  intense  self-scorn.  *'  I  don't  wonder 
you  wonder.  And  to  add  bathos  to  folly  I  am  besotted 
enough  to  be  fond  of  him  yet.  Wliile  he — but  there  !  it  is 
just  one  of  the  things  that  won't  bear  talking  of,  and  I  did 
not  come  here  at  this  hour  of  night  to  discuss  my  madness 
or  my  husband.     1  came,  Vera,  to  talk  of — yours." 

A  shadow  of  annoyance  passes  over  Vera's  face.  Of  all 
subjects  this  one,  as  discussed  by  Dora,  isanost  distasteful  to 
her. 

"  I  wish  you  would  not,"  she  says,  her  dark  brows  con- 
tracting. "  Believe  me.  Dot,  it  is  better  not.  I  thought  we 
had  said  our  final  say  on  that  subject  this  morning." 

"  You  did,  you  mean — I  said  nothing,  if  you  remember. 
It  is  my  turn  now.  Vera,  your  warnmg  came  too  late. 
Last  night,  after  we  returned  from  the  ball — after  you  were 
in  bed  and  asleep,  1  sent  for  Colonel  Ffrench  and  had  it 
out." 

"  Dot  I  at  that  hour  !  three  in  the  morning  ! " 

"  Improper,  was  it  ?  "  laughs  Dora.    "You  are  not  jealous. 


!  1 


Jf^T 


^t!  J: 


;•! 

ir^ 

i^ 

, 

'iik 

r 

'4lli 

1 

■'fill 

^\ 


I 


'i.:'l 


292 


//   SLWfMEK  NIGHT. 


I  hope.  Wc  don't  stand  in  the  nicer  shades  of  propriety 
where  vital  interests  are  at  stake.  And  one's  broth(.'r-in-la\v 
and  ste|)-son  combined  is  privileged.  Yes,  I  sent  for  him — 
they  were  having  a  dinner  parly,  and  keeping  it  up  until 
morning,  it  seems  ;  antl  he  came,  and,  as  1  say,  we  had  it 
out." 

*'IIad  what  out?"  Vera's  voice  is  thorougidy  iced,  and 
impatient  also.  "  (rood  Heavens  !  "  she  thinks,  "  will  Dot 
never  let  other  people's  business  alone  ?  " 

"The  subject  of  your  marriage,  my  dear — I  don't  mind 
admitting  that  I  began  it.  Vera,  it  is  of  no  use  your  mount- 
ing to  the  tops  of  High  and  Mightydom  witii  me.  It  is  I 
who  made  the  mistake — it  is  I  who  am  in  duty  bound  to  re- 
pair it.  Colonel  Ffrench  thinks  as  I  do,  that  it  was  a 
horrible  blunder,  and  the  sooner  it  can  be  set  right  the 
better." 

Vera  turns  to  her,  a  slight  color  rising  and  deepening  in 
her  face,  a  slow  angry  light  kindling  in  her  eyes. 

"Yes,"  she  says,  steadily,  "a  horrible  blunder,  and  the 
sooner  it  can  be  set  right  the  better !  How  do  you  and  Col- 
onel Ffrench  purpose  setting  it  right  ?  " 

*'  There  is  but  one  way — and  here  he  agrees  with  me,  too, 
tliat  no  time  should  be  lost — a  divorce  I  " 

A  flash — swift,  dark,  fierce — leaps  from  Vera's  eyes.  She 
half  rises. 

''  Dot  !  " 

**  A  divorce,"  goes  on  Dora,  steadily.  "  Sit  down  Vera. 
There  need  be  no  publicity,  he  says ;  you  can  apply  for  it  in 
some  obscure  State  when  we  return  to  America ;  he  will,  of 
course,  interfere  in  no  way  with  the  action  of  the  law — he 
pledges  himself  to  this.  '  I  will  not  lift  a  finger  to  prevent 
it ' — those  were  his  words.  '  I  should  be  sorry  to  stand  in 
the  way  of  your  sister's  accession  to  fortune  and  rank' — 
those  are  his  words  too.  Of  course  he  has  heard  of  Sir  Bel- 
tran " 


ropriety 
r-in-la\v 
r  him — 
up  until 
;  had  it 

;e(l,  ami 
kill  Dot 

I't  mind 
mount- 
It  is  I 
id  to  re- 
;  was  a 
ight  the 


,'ning  in 


and   the 
.nd  Col- 

me,  too, 

.     She 


n  Vera, 
or  it  in 
will,  of 
aw — he 
jrevent 
tand  in 
ank'— 

■Sir  Bel. 


A  SUMA/ER  xiG/rr. 


293 


She  sto[)s.  Vera  has  risen  in  a  sudden  flame  of  wrath  to 
her  feet. 

"Dora!"  she  cries,  "look  at  me  1  tell  me  the  trufh  ! 
Do  you  mean  to  say  Richard  Ffrench  said  that — urged  a  di- 
vorce— spoke  of  my  marrying  another  man  ?  " 

The  words  seem  to  choke  her — she  stops,  gasping. 

"  1  mean  to  say  he  said  every  word  I  tell  you,"  Dora 
answers  with  dignity,  and  meeting  the  blazing  black  eyes  full. 
"Do  you  think  I  tell  lies?  Those  were  Richard  Kfrench's 
exact  words  ;  ask  him,  if  you  like.  He  looks  upon  his  mar- 
riage as  the  bane  of  his  life,  he  looks  upon  a  divorce  as  the 
one  atonement  that  can  be  made.  Will  you  kindly  sit  down 
again,  or  do  you  intend  doing  a  little  high  tragedy  for  my 
exclusive  benefit  ?  " 

Vera  sits  down.  The  flush  fades  from  her  face,  and  leaves 
it  grayish  pale.     She  even  laughs. 

"  1  beg  your  pardon,  Dot  ;  I  won't  do  high  tragedy  any 
more.  Pray  go  on.  I  should  like  to  hear  a  few  more  of 
Colonel  Ffrench's  forcible  remarks." 

"  We  discussed  the  matter  fully,"  goes  on,  obediently, 
Mrs.  Fanshawe,  "  in  all  its  bearings.  You  cannot  blame 
him,  Vera,  that  he  is  most  anxious  to  regain  his  freedom. 
Any  man  would  in  his  place.  And — he  did  not  say  so  in 
express  words,  remember — but  1  infer  that  in  Cuba  there  is 
some  one — a  lady " 

"Yes.     Goon." 

"Well — perhaps  I  had  better  not,  and  he  really  did  not 
say  so  directly.  But  one  can  always  tell — men  are  so  trans- 
parent in  these  things.  He  has  heard  of  Sir  Beltran's  atten- 
tions, and  he  spoke  very  handsomely — said  he  need  never 
know — of  the  divorce,  I  mean." 

"Yes." 

"  He  leaves  England  shortly,  and  will  soon  after  return  to 
Cuba.  There  is  every  possibility,  he  thinks,  of  his  remain- 
ing definitely  there." 


Ik 


it  i 


I 


294 


A  SUMMER  NIGHT. 


»*J  t 


n? : 


m 


I ' 


I  III 


I 


'•Yes." 

"  And  he  said  he  thought  it  best  under  the  circumstances 
not  to  seek  an  interview  with  you.  It  could  only  be  painful 
and  embarrassing  to  you  both.  That  is  why  to-day — I  am 
almost  sure — he  feigned  not  to  know  you  when  you  met. 
P\)r,  of  course,  he  knows  you — you  have  changed,  but  not 
so  utterly  as  that." 

"Yes." 

Mrs.  Fanshawe  smiles. 

*'  How  long  do  you  intend  to  go  on  saying  '  yes,'  like  an 
automaton  ?  Turn  round.  Vera,  and  let  me  see  you.  Tell  me 
you  agree  with  what  I  say  about  the  divorce.  Believe  me, 
child,  it  is  the  only  thing  to  be  done,  for  you  and  for  him. 
And  then  you  can  become  Lady " 

Vera  turn?  round,  turns  so  suddenly,  so  imperiously,  that 
Dora  recoils. 

"  That  will  do,  Dot.  I  have  not  much  to  say  ;  I  will  not 
be  tragic  or  high-flown  if  I  can  help  it.  Hear  me,  and  hear 
me  on  this  matter  for  the  las',  time.  Neither  from  you  nor 
any  other  human  being  will  1  tolerate  a  word  on  the  subject  of 
my  marriage  more.  I  will  never  apply  for  a  divorce — I  will 
never  marry  again.  If  Sir  Beltran  Talbot  were  one  of  her 
Majesty's  sons,  and  I  were  free  by  law  to-morrow,  I  would 
not  marry  him.  Colonel  Ffrench  may  free  himself  or  not,  as 
he  pleases,  and  as  he  can — for  me  tliere  shall  be  no  divorce,  no 
lovers,  no  marrying  !  As  1  am  to-night  1  will  go  to  my  grave. 
And  if  ever  you.  Dot,  see  him  again  and  discuss  me  with  him 
as  you  did  last  niglit,  as  surely  as  we  both  sit  here,  I  will  leave 
you  !     I  will  leave  you,  and  will  never  return  !  " 

Dora  sits  mute,  shrinking,  startled,  confounded. 

"  Let  us  not  quarrel,"  Vera  says,  after  a  moment,  in  an 
unsteady  voice,  "  let  us  finish  with  this  now,  and  forever. 
It  is  a  miserable  affair  from  first  to  last.  Oh  !  a  niserable, 
miserable  affair !  I  am  tired,  my  head  aches  I  think,  and— 
and — good-night,  Dot ! " 


«•  IVE  FELL    OUT,    MY   WIFE   AND  /." 


295 


istanccs 
;  painful 
^ — I  am 
ou  met. 
but  not 


like  an 
Tell  me 
2ve  me, 
for  him. 


Dora  rises,  dignified  but  disgusted,  and  without  deigning 
to  notice  the  hand  her  sister  holds  out,  sails  in  silence  from 
the  room.     The  door  bangs  behind  her,  and  Vera  is  alone. 

But  not  the  same  Vera.  She  sits  where  Dora  has  left  her, 
and  she  knows  her  fate.  She  believes  what  she  has  heard. 
She  sits  quite  motionless  a  long  time — her  hand  over  her 
eyes.  A  long  time — so  long  that  the  rain  is  pattering 
sharply  against  the  glass,  and  the  raw  London  fog  floating 
dankly  through  the  open  windows  before  she  stirs.  But  she 
rises  at  last,  and  as  she  turns  to  the  light,  both  hand  and 
face  are  wet  with  tears. 


,    ♦• 


sly,  that 


will  not 

,nd  hear 

you  nor 

bject  of 

-I  will 

of  her 

would 

not,  as 

Dree,  no 

grave. 

ith  him 

11  leave 


m  an 

orever. 

erable, 

and— 


CHAPTER  VII. 

"we  fell  out,  my  wife  and  I." 

HERE  !  Look  to  the  left,  Colonel  Ffrench,  it  is  the 
Countess  of  Davenant — she  is  bowing.  Do  you 
not  remember  meeting  her  ?  Ah  !  yonder  is  Mrs. 
Fanshawe  ;  how  pretty  and — yes,  youthful  she  is — at  this 
distance.  Those  petite  blondes  make  up  so  admirably. 
That  is  Miss  Martinez  beside  her,  of  course,  and  also  of 
course  that  is  Sir  Bcltran  Talbot  with  them.  You  do  not 
know  Miss  Martinez  ?  She  was  at  Lady  Hammerton's  gar- 
den party  last  week.  She  is  an  American,  or  Cuban,  I 
really  do  not  know  which,  but  a  compatriot  of  yours,  mon 
colonel,  in  any  case,  and  one  of  tlie  most  Q\\'Axx\\\x\g  debutantes 
of  the  season.  They  tell  me  all  your  American  women  of 
the  best  type  are  like  that,  pale,  spiriti/clle,  haughty.  She 
makes  one  of  our  party  to-day  at  Richmond  with  the  Damie 
Fanshawe's,  She  is  (.piite  the  fashion,  and  asked  everywhere. 
They  leave  almost  immediately,  to-morrow  or  next  day,  for 
New  York.     No  doubt  Sir  Beltran  will  get  leave  of  absence 


'1 


296 


u   r 


WE  FELL   OUT,  MY  WIFE  AND  /.'» 


A  ?: 


Si' 


l|      \>-U^ 


',1: 


l.'i 


and  follow.  They  say  she  is  an  heiress,  but  even  for  one  of 
your  rich  country  women  it  will  be  a  brilliant  match.  He  is 
the  parti  of  the  season,  and — ah  !  " 

Mrs.  De  Vigne  pauses — she  looks,  first  at  the  Fanshawe 
party,  then  at  the  Cuban  colonel,  who  sits  beside  her.  The 
scene  is  the  Park — the  liour  five  in  the  afternoon.  The 
crush  of  carriages  has  come  to  a  dead  lock.  Directly  oppo- 
site her  pretty  Victoria,  is  a  barouche  ;  seated  therein  Mrs. 
Dane  Fanshawe,  Miss  Martinez,  and  beside  them,  curbing, 
with  some  difficulty,  his  impatient  horse,  Sir  Beltran  Talbot. 
Colonel  Ffrench's  quick  eyes  have  seen  them  even  before 
those  of  his  fair  companion,  and  his  dark  brows  bend,  and 
his  resolute  lii)s  compress  as  his  gaxe  rests  on  Vera  and  her 
attendant  knight.  What  all  the  world  says  must  surely  be 
true,  and  seeing,  the  universe  over,  is  believing.  Sir  Bel- 
tran's  story  is  written  in  his  frank  English  face,  for  all  the 
Lady's  Mile  to  read,  if  it  listeth. 

For  Vera,  she  lies  back  listlessly  enough,  a  trifle  bored, 
but  very  handsome — so  handsome  that  a  thrill  of  wonder,  of 
recognition,  of  pleasure,  of  pain,  goes  through  the  heart  of 
the  man  who  watches  her.  His  wife  !  He  is  amazed  at 
himself  that,  in  spite  of  all  changes,  he  has  not  recognized  her 
from  tht  first ;  for,  despite  all  its  beauty,  lie  sees  now  it  is 
the  very  face  of  little  Vera,  and  the  deep,  large,  lustrous 
eyes — they  are  unchanged.  Sir  Beltran  is  talking — she  is 
listening — answering — smiling,  too,  but  in  an  absent  and  pre- 
occupied way,  and  with  a  i)roud  indifference  she  takes  no 
pains  to  hide.  A  sharp  pang  of  angry  jealousy  knits  Richard 
Ffrench's  brows.  She  is  his — his  wife — what  has  this  man, 
any  man  on  earth  to  do  with  her  but  himself?  His  resolu- 
tion is  taken  on  the  instant — there  shall  be  no  divorce — his 
wife  she  is,  his  wife  she  shall  remain — no  man  shall  win  or 
wear  what  belongs  to  him.  She  may  have  forgotten,  but  she 
loved  him  once — child  or  woman,  it  matters  not,  she  loved 
him.     She  shall  love  him  again.     She  may  be  ambitious,  she 


':■; 


*w«iiwa5t 


*'  l^E  FELL    OUT,    MV    WIFE  AND   /." 


297 


bored, 
ider,  of 
eart  of 
zed  at 
;ed  her 
w  it  is 
strous 
she  is 
d  pre- 
kes  no 
ichard 
s  man, 
resolu- 
e — his 
win  or 
lit  she 
loved 
s,  she 


may  be  worldly — she  may  be  like  her  sister,  and  yet  he  can- 
not believe  it.  That  is  a  noble,  a  true,  a  pure,  a  womanly 
face,  if  he  is  any  judge  of  faces.  And  little  Vera  cannot 
have  changed  her  whole  nature.  How  beautiful  she  is — not 
one  of  these  fair,  delicate  patricians  he  sees  about  her,  are 
half  or  quarter  so  lovely.     And  she  is  his  wife 

Sir  Beltran  Talbot  glances  at  him,  and  salutes  Mrs.  De 
Vigne.  Then  he  stoops  with  a  smile,  and  speaks  to  Vera. 
She  looks  up,  her  eyes  and  the  eyes  of  Richard  Ffrench 
meet.  He  knows  her  now — at  last ! — and  there  flashes  from 
hers  one  passionate  gleam  of  anger,  and  scorn,  and  con- 
tempt, that  even  Mrs.  De  Vigne  cannot  fail  to  see.  She 
turns  to  him  in  wonder. 

"  She  knows  you,"  she  says,  almost  involuntarily,  "  I 
thought " 

She  checks  herself  and  looks  away.  But  in  that  moment 
she  had  divined  with  a  woman's  quickness  in  these  things, 
that  the  dark,  dashing  soldier  of  fortune  by  her  side,  has  had 
his  romance,  and  that  the  end  is  not  yet.  And  Miss  Mar- 
tinez— is  this  the  secret  of  her  proud  indifference  to  all  men, 
of  her  coldness  to  Sir  Beltran.  Colonel  Ffrench  is  the  sort 
of  man  to  win  a  woman's  heart  and  keep  it.  They  have 
known  each  other  in  America — been  lovers,  perhaps.  And 
now  they  meet  as  strangers,  and  Miss  Martinez's  superb 
black  eyes  blaze  as  they  look  on  him.  Mrs.  De  Vigne 
makes  up  her  mind  that  she  will  watch  them  this  afternoon, 
and  find  out  something  of  this  interesting  little  rciuance  if 
she  dies  for  it.  They  were  to  have  staid — the  Dame  Fan- 
shawe's,  until  the  end  of  the  season.  Now  they  depart 
abruptly  this  week.  Has  the  unexpected  advent  of  the 
Cuban  colonel  anything  to  do  with  this  rapid  exodus  ? 

Nothing  is  said — there  is  a  break  in  the  line,  and  the  car- 
riages pass.     But  in  Colonel  Ffrench' s  face  there  is  a  change 
which  his  fair  friend  is  quick  to   see.     She  is  a  pretty  little 
woman,  a  married  flirt  of  the  most  pronounced  order,  and 
n* 


bM 


298 


•«  WE  FELL    OUT,    MY  WIFE  AND  /." 


1-  I 


r       ♦ 


<  }' 


1 1  'i 


1  I  I 


his  handsome,  free  lance,  has  caught  her  inflammable  fancy 
from  the  first.  He  is  due  to-day  at  her  villa  near  Richmond. 
The  Datne  Fanshawe's  and  Sir  Beltran  Talbot  are  also  to 
be  guests.  It  is  the  last  invitation  the  Fanshawes  will 
accept,  as  Mrs.  De  Vigne  gayly  puts  it  to  her  companion — 
positively  the  last  appearance  of  Miss  Martinez.  No  doubt 
the  engagement  will  be  announced  almost  immediately.  It 
will  be  a  most  brilliant  match  for  Miss  Martinez.  Beautiful 
she  is — of  that  there  can  be  no  question,  but  mere  beauty 
counts  for  so  little,  and  Sir  Beltran,  with  his  rent  roll,  and 
his  pedigree,  might  have  won  the  highest  in  the  land.  Still 
he  is  absolutely  untrammeled,  and  his  passion  for  la  belle 
Americaine  is  a  thing  to  marvel  at,  in  these  degenerate 
days. 

Mrs.  De  Vigne's  gay  little  tongue  runs  merrily  all  the  way 
during  that  drive  to  Richmond.  Her  companion  says  very 
little — as  a  rule  he  says  little — but  he  is  more  silent  to-day 
than  she  has  ever  known  him.  A  total  revulsion  of  feeling 
has  taken  place  with  him  at  sight  of  his  wife  and  the  man 
beside  her.  Shall  Dora  Fanshawe,  ambitious,  scheming,  un- 
principled, rule  his  whole  life  ?  Once  she  found  him  plastic 
as  wax  in  her  hands  ;  shall  she  find  him  so  forever.  And 
yet,  was  it  altogether  her  tears,  Mrs.  Charlton's  bitter  words, 
his  step-father's  decree,  that  caused  his  marriage?  Even  in 
these  far-off  days  was  not  little  Vera  dear  to  him,  was  it  not 
to  save  her  possible  pain  ;  was  it  not  because  she  cared  for 
him,  and  it  would  make  her  happy  ?  He  does  not  know,  he 
cannot  tell.  Tiiat  distant  time  is  as  a  dream — it  seems  to 
him  just  now  as  if  he  must  have  loved  her  all  his  life.  She 
is  his  wife — his  wife  she  shall  remain.  What  was  it  Dora 
said  about  her  notions  of  wifely  duty  and  honor?  he  had 
paid  but  little  heed  that  night.  What  if  Dora  is  at  the  bot- 
tom of  it  all  ?  if  that  talk  of  divorce,  and  unhappiness,  and 
love  for  Sir  Beltran  be  but  a  little  skilful  fiction  of  her  own  ? 
He  knows  Mrs.  Fanshawe  of  old,  knows  that  most  of  her 


M.I 


«'  fV£  FELL   OUT,   MY   WIFE  AND  /." 


299 


e  fancy 
liniond. 
also  to 
es  will 
mion — 
0  doubt 
ely.     It 
eautiful 
beauty 
oil,  and 
\.     Still 
la  belle 
generate 

the  way 
lys  very 
t  to-day 
f  feeling 
the  man 
ling,  un- 
plastic 
And 
words, 
Even  in 
it  not 
B,red  for 
now,  he 
2ems  to 
She 
it  Dora 
he  had 
he  bot- 
iss,  and 
:r  own  ? 
of  her 


.s 


glib  chatter  is  to  be  taken  with  a  pinch  of  salt.  What  if  the 
old  girlish  flmcy  be  not  quite  dead  despite  six  years  of  Mrs. 
Fanshawe  ?  What  if  life  holds  other  possibilities  more 
blissful  even  than  fighting  for  freedom  and  Cuba  ?  To-day 
they  will  meet.  He  will  seek  her  out,  and  put  his  fate  to 
the  touch,  to  win  or  lose  it  all.  They  go  so  soon,  and  when 
once  apart  who  knows  when  they  may  meet  again  ? 

"  W'elcome  to  Richmond,"  cries  the  gay  voice  of  Mrs.  De 
Vigne.  "  Come  back,  please,  Colonel  Ffrench,  from — I 
wonder  where  you  have  been  for  the  past  fifteen  minutes, 
as  you  sat  there  staring  straight  before  you,  with  that  dread- 
fully inflexible  and  obstinate  look  !  Wherever  you  were,  re- 
turn, for  here  we  are  at  last." 

V  *p  1*  •!•  "1*  ^  T» 

"  I  wonder,"  Dora  says,  in  a  low  voice,  that  Sir  Beltran 
may  not  hear  ;  "  1  wonder.  Vera,  if  Colonel  Ffrench  is  really 
en  route  for  Richmond,  and  makes  one  of  the  guests  ? 
Mrs.  De  Vigne's  flirtation  is  certainly  more  pronounced  than 
even  Mrs.  De  Vigne's  flirtations  are  wont  to  be,  and  that  is 
saying  a  good  deal.     Shall  you  mind,  dear  ?  " 

"  If  Richard  Ffrench  is  there  ?  Not  in  the  least,"  says 
Vera,  coldly. 

'*  He  saw  us,  but  I  did  not  see  him.  People  imagine  we 
are  strangers,  and  a  recognition  here  in  the  Park  would  in- 
volve so  many  disagreeable  explanations.  If  he  is  introduced 
he  will  have  tact  and  good  taste  enough  to  see  and  under- 
stand. I  am  afraid  it  will  be  awkward  for  you,  Vera  ;  and 
with  Sir  Beltran  present,  too.     If  we  only  need  not  go." 

"Why  need  we?"  Vera  asks,  in  the  same  frosty  voice. 

"  Well,  we  have  accepted,  you  see,  and  we  cannot  i)lead 
sudden  indisposition,  now  that  she  has  seen  us,  and  besides, 
as  it  is  our  very  last Still,  dear,  if  you  wish " 

*'  I  have  no  wish  in  the  matter.  It  can  make  very  little 
difference  whether  Colonel  Ffrench  is  present  or  not.  I 
tliink,  indeed,  on  the  whole,  I  should  prefer  it." 


,  i~   ( 


'.{'':'! 


§ 


m 


■■  it 


I  '!!' 


'J 


!i 


300 


"  l^FE  FELL    OUT,   MY  WIFE  AND  /." 


"  Prefer  it !  "  Mrs.  Fanshawe  repeats,  startled. 

"Prefer  it,"  Vera  iterates.  Her  lips  are  set,  her  eyes 
quite  flash,  there  is  a  look  of  invincible  resolution  on  her 
face.  "There  are  just  two  or  three  things  I  should  like  to 
say  to  Colonel  Ffrench — to  disabuse  his  mind,  if  possible,  of 
one  or  two  little  mistakes  he  may  have  made  in  the  past. 
Fate  shall  settle  it.  If  we  meet,  I  shall  si)eak  to  him  ;  if  we 
do  not,  why,  we  will  drift  asunder  in  silence.  Now  let  us 
drop  the  subject.  As  I  told  you  before.  Colonel  Ffrench  is 
a  topic  I  decline  henceforth  to  discuss." 

When  Vera's  face  takes  that  look,  when  Vera's  voice  takes 
that  tone,  Dora  knows  there  is  no  more  to  be  said.  She  is 
wise  in  her  generation — beyond  a  certain  |)oint  it  is  always 
best  to  let  things  take  their  course.  She  has  done  her  work, 
and  done  it  well.  Vera  is  proud,  and  her  pride  has  had  its 
death-blow.  She  is  sensitively  womanly  and  delicate,  and 
that  delicate  womanliness  has  been  stung  to  the  quick. 
Dora  has  seen  that  flashing  passing  glance — those  two  may 
safely  meet,  and  in  all  probability  it  will  be  for  the  last  time. 

A  week  has  passed  since  that  rainy  July  night.  All  in  a 
moment  Mrs.  Fanshawe  makes  up  her  mind,  and  issues  her 
imperial  ukase — they  are  to  go  home  at  once.  London  is 
not  habitable  after  July,  she  is  fagged  out,  she  is  homesick  ; 
a  month's  perfect  repose  at  Charlton  is  imperatively  neces- 
sary to  her  health  and  hajjpiness.  Vera  looks  at  her  with 
real  gratitude  ;  she  will  be  glad,  unutterably  glad  to  get  mvay. 
She  is  so  tired  of  it  all,  there  is  so  much  sameness,  so  mu-^-.h 
monotony,  so  deadly  a  weariness  in  it  all.  Something  lies 
like  lead  on  her  heart ;  she  does  not  care  to  ask  what.  To 
be  back  at  Charlton,  under  the  fresh  greenness  of  the  trees, 
to  look  once  more  on  the  blue  brightness  of  ihe  sea,  to  be 
away  from  Sir  Beltran  Talbot,  to  begin  all  over  again,  to 
feel  once  more  alone — it  is  the  desire  of  her  heart." 

"Thank  you,  Dot,"  she  says,  gratefully,  wearily.  "Yes, 
let  us  go  ;  let  us  go  at  once." 


•r   eyes 
on  her 

like  to 
ible,  of 
e  past. 
1 ;  if  we 
let  us 
-ench  is 

:e  takes 
She  is 
;  always 
;r  work, 
)  had  its 
ite,   and 
;    quick. 
wo  may 
Lst  time. 
All  in  a 
ues  her 
ndon  is 
|nesick  ; 
neces- 
ler  wirh 
t  i'way. 
)  munh 
ing  lies 
It.     To 
trees, 
I,  to  be 
;ain,  to 


(< 


Yes, 


♦'  IFE  FELL    OUT,    MY   WIFE  AND   /." 


301 


So  it  is  settled,  ^f  r.  Dane  Fanshawe  shrugs  his  shoulders, 
smiles  under  his  blonde  beard,  glances  at  his  handsome  sis- 
ter-in-law, and  assents.  "As  the  (jueen  wills"  is  after  all 
the  law  of  the  household,  although  Mr.  Fanshawe  does 
pretty  much  as  he  pleases  in  the  main.  Mrs.  Ellerton  is  a 
pretty  woman  and  a  charming  actress,  but  pretty  women 
abound,  and  charming  actresses  are  everywhere,  and  he  has 
known  her  six  weeks,  and  Dora  is  growing  jealous,  poor  soul, 
and  Mr.  Fanshawe  struggles  with  a  yawn,  rises  languidly,  and 
departs  to  see  about  state-rooms.  He  is  not  at  the  Rich- 
mond villa  to-day  ;  he  is  dining  with  Mrs.  Pvlicrton  and  a 
select  few  not  on  his  wife's  visiting  list,  at  the  "  Star  and 
Garter." 

Sunset  lies  low,  translucent,  rose,  and  gold,  over  the 
world.  It  is  neither  classic  Tiber,  dreamy  Nile,  nor  tlowing 
Arno — it  is  only  the  Thames  above  Richmond,  but  the  river 
glides  cool,  blue,  bright  between  its  green  wooded  banks — a 
strip  of  silver  ribbon  between  belts  of  emerald  green. 

Mrs.  De  Vigne's  place  is  a  dream  of  delight,  of  all  rare  and 
radiant  flowers,  of  ancestral  oaks,  elms,  and  cop[)er  beeches, 
slanting  down  to  the  river-side,  and  Mrs.  De  Vigne  is  a  very 
queen  of  hostesses.  The  house  is  cool  and  breezy,  the  din- 
ner the  master[)iece  of  a  chef,  the  guests  select,  well  chosen, 
and  not  too  many.  Removed  from  him  by  nearly  the  whole 
length  of  the  table,  and  on  the  same  side,  sits  Vera,  so  Colo- 
nel Ffrench,  seated  near  his  hostess,  catches  but  one  or  two 
fleeting  glimpses  of  her  during  the  ceremonial.  She  is 
dressed  in  pale,  gold- colored  silk,  with  black  laces,  and  she 
wears  diamonds.  He  has  never  seen  her  in  jewels  before, 
and  the  flashing  brilliants  and  rich-hued  silk  become  her 
magnihcently.  She  looks  regal,  he  thinks — more  beautiful 
than  he  has  even  imagined  her,  and  as  unapprunchable  as  a 
princess.  Sir  Beltran  is  not  quite  by  her  side,  but  he  is 
sufiiciently  near  to  pay  her  much  more  attention  than  he 
pays  his  dinner. 


'fill; 


:\3  iff-' 


i:       'i'''! 


302 


"  IV£  FELL    OUT,  MY  WIFE  AMD  /." 


"The  Martinez  is  in  capital  form  this  evening,"  drawls  a 
man  near  him  to  his  next  neighbor;  "  handsomest  woman, 
by  Jove,  in  England.  Pity  she  goes  so  soon.  Never  saw 
her  look  half  a  (quarter  so  su[)erb  before." 

"  It  is  a  way  of  Miss  Martinez's,"  is  the  answer,  "  to  look 
more  bewildering  each  time  than  the  last.  And  to-day,  as 
you  say,  she  is  dazzling.  Like  the  sun,  she  Hashes  out  most 
brilliantly  just  before  setting.  Lucky  fellow,  Talbot — con- 
found him  I  " 

"  Ah  !  you  may  say  so,"  the  first  speaker  responds 
gloomily,  and  Richard  Ffrench  turns  with  angry  impatience 
away. 

How  dare  these  men  discuss  his  wife — link  her  name  with 
Talbot's.  He  feels  im[)elled  to  turn  savagely  U[)on  them, 
and  annihilate  them  and  all  present  with  the  truth. 

}5ut  he  does  not — he  chafes  with  irritated  impatience  and 
restrains  himself.  As  yet  no  presentation  has  taken  place — 
he  has  no  desire  for  a  formal  [)resentation  ;  he  will  seek  her 
out  in  the  drawing-room  and  speak  to  her,  if  he  can,  alone. 
And  if  the  Vera  of  old  is  not  dead  and  <Tone  forever,  the 
dear  little  Vera  of  Shaddeck  Light,  he  will  claim  his  wife 
before  the  world  ere  it  is  a  week  older. 

The  ladies,  at  Mrs.  De  Vigne's  telegraphic  bow,  rise  and 
depart,  and  he  watches  in  their  train  that  one  slender  figure, 
with  the  mien  and  grace  of  a  (pieen.  Sir  Beltran  watches 
also — he,  too,  is  silent,  preoccupied,  absent.  Ffrench  notes 
it  jealously.  The  interval  ends,  and  they  are  in  the  drawing- 
room,  where  fair  women  flutter  about  like  bright-plumaged 
birds,  and  there  is  music,  and  the  subdued  tumult  of  gay 
voices  and  laughter.  Outside,  day  is  not  yet  done — the 
lovely  after-glow  still  lingers,  a  pearly  sickle  moon  is  cut 
sharply  in  the  sapphire  blue,  and  down  in  the  copse  a  night- 
ingale is  singing.  A  faint  hay-scented  breeze  stirs  the  lace 
window  draperies — one  or  two  stars  come  out  in  their 
golden  tremulous  beauty  as  he  looks.     It  is  a  picture  he 


.1 1 


1 1    tl 


.^ 


;,"  drawls  a 
est  woman, 
Never  saw 


•,  "  to  look 

I  to- clay,  as 
js  out  most 
ilbot — con- 

•  responds 
impatience 

name  with 
.il)on  them, 
li. 

itience  and 
:en  place — ■ 

II  seek  her 
[can,  alone, 
brever,  the 
im  his  wife 

w,  rise  and 

der  figure, 

m  watches 

nch  notes 

le  drawing- 

-plumaged 

ult  of  gay 

done — the 

3on  is  cut 

se  a  night- 

rs  the  lace 

in    their 

picture  he 


«'  ^VE  FELL   OUT,  MY  WIFE  AND  /." 


303 


\ 


sees  to  the  last  day  of  his  life — photographed  sharply  as  a 
vision  on  his  brain. 

"It  is  so  warm,"  says  some  one;  "come  out  and  let  us 
hear  the  nightingale." 

A  little  jewelled  hand  is  [lUshed  through  his  arm,  a  pair  of 
soft  eyes  look  u^)  at  him,  a  plaintive  voice  makes  the  senti- 
mental si)eech.  IJut  it  is  only  Mrs.  De  Vigne,  and  Mrs.  De 
Vigne  on  mischief  bent. 

"  Do  you  ever  hear  nightingales  in  Cuba  or  in  New  York  ? 
Look  at  that  moon,  Colonel  Ffrench,  and  wish — it  is  the 
new  moon.  What  was  it  you  wished  for  ?  Ah  !  Miss  Mar- 
tinez !" 

The  interjection  is  at  once  malicious  and  apposite,  for  at 
the  moment  Miss  Afartinez  comes  in  view,  and  Sir  Beltran 
is  with  her.  They  stand  in  the  shadow  of  the  trees,  he  has 
both  her  hands  in  his,  his  face  is  Hushed,  eager,  im|)assioned. 
The  hour  has  come  !  Vera's  they  cannot  see — it  is  in 
shadow  and  averted,  but  the  attitude,  the  look  of  Sir  Heltran 
tells  the  whole  story.  Mrs.  De  Vigne  glances  up  at  her 
comi)anion  and  laughs. 

"  Only  now  !  "  she  says,  *•  and  I  thought  it  was  all  settled 
ages  ago.  I  wanted  to  introduce  you  to  Miss  Martinez,  but 
I  suppose  it  would  never  do  to  interrupt  that  tableau.  We 
shall  have  to  go  and  listen  to  the  nightingale  after  all." 

He  stands  still,  his  face  dark,  his  brows  knit,  his  eyes 
glowing.  He  neither  hears  nor  heeds.  Mrs.  De  Vigne 
looks  at  him  with  even  more  interest  than  she  has  looked 
yet. 

"Colonel  Ffrench,"  she  repeats,  incisively,  "shall  we  go 
and  listen  to " 

She  pauses.  Miss  Martinez  has  suddenly  drawn  her 
hands  away,  and  turned  resolutely  from  her  lover.  In  turn- 
ing from  him,  she  turns  to  them.  She  sees  them — liim — 
stands,  and  lets  them  approach. 

"  JVfy  dear  Miss  Martinez,"  says  the  bright  voice  of  little 


304 


"  /r/{   FELL    OCT,  MY  WIFE  AND   /." 


I  M:: 


i'  '  I 


Mrs.  De  Vigne,  "  lot  iiil*  make  two  of  my  most  especial  friends 
ac(iiuiintecl — let  me  present  to  you  Colonel  Ffrench." 

Vera  looks  at  him — fully,  steadily.  Instinctively  he  holds 
out  his  hand  —she  docs  not  seem  to  see  it. 

"  I  have  met  Colonel  Ffrench  before,"  she  says,  in  a  voice 
as  steady  as  her  look.  All  that  Dora  has  told  her,  all  her 
outraged  woman's  pride,  all  the  words  of  that  fatal  letter  of 
long  ago,  rise  and  burn  in  passionate  pride  wilhin  her.  She 
would  rather  fall  dead  here  where  she  stands  than  let  him  see 
his  presence  has  power  to  move  her. 

His  hand  dr()[)s  by  his  siile — they  turn  as  by  one  impulse, 
and  move  on  together.  lUit  in  dead  silence,  until  Mrs.  I>e 
Vigne,  pulling  herself  u[)  with  an  effort,  breaks  out  with  a 
sort  of  gasp,  to  fill  up  the  awful  hiatus.  No  one  knows  what 
she  says — it  is  doubtful  if  she  does  herself.  Only  she  is  say- 
ing something — this  blank  silence  is  quite  too  horrid.  Where 
is  Sir  Heltran  Talbcjt?  She  glances  behind — he  has  disap- 
peared. She  looks  at  Miss  Martinez — her  face  is  marble  in 
the  pale  shimmer  of  the  moon.  She  turns  to  the  Cuban  col- 
onel— his  has  set  itself  in  an  expression  of  invincible  resolve. 
Something  wrong  here,  something  seriously  wrong — she  is 
playing  gooseberry — she  will  get  away,  and  let  them  have  it 
out  by  themselves.  Some  guests  approach — a  word  of  apol- 
ogy, and  she  is  gone.     Then  he  turns  to  her. 

"Vera!" 

"  Colonel  Ffrench  !  " 

Her  eyes  Hash  out  upon  him,  but  despite  the  fire  of  her 
eyes,  two  words  kept  in  a  refrigerator  for  a  year  could  not  be 
more  thoroughly  iced. 

*'  You  are  about  to  leave  England  ?  " 

"  The  day  after  to-morrow — yes." 

"  1  wish  to  see  you  before  you  go  —  I  must  see  you  !  "  he 
says,  in  a  tone  that  makes  a  second  flash  leap  from  the  South- 
ern eyes  J  "  I  must  see  you  alone.  Here  is  your  sister.  At 
what  hour  to-morrow  may  I  call  ?  " 


il  friends 

he  holds 

n  a  voice 
;r,  all  her 
[  letter  of 
ler.  She 
t  him  see 

impulse, 
Mrs.  I>e 
mt  with  a 
lows  what 
he  is  say- 
.  Where 
las  disap- 
narble  in 
uban  col- 
resolve, 
—she  is 
n  have  it 
of  apol- 


Ire  of  her 
Id  not  be 


[Oil 


"  he 
e  South- 
ter.     At 


"0,   /r/s   FELL  OUT,  I  K'NOIV  NOT  117/ Vr      305 

"  You  take  a  remarkably  authoritative  tone,  do  you  not, 
Colonel  I'french  ?  However,  as  1  have  a  few  words  to  say 
to  you  in  turn — if  you  call  at  four  to-morrow  you  will  lind  me 
at  home." 

She  turns  swiftly  to  Afrs.  I'anshawe,  bows  slightly  and  for 
the  first  time,  and  so  leaves  hhn. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

"  O,    WK    FELL   OUT,    I    KNOW    NOT   WHY." 

QUIET  scene — a  i)retty  picture.  A  handsomely 
api)ointed  parlor,  the  too  ardent  afternoon  sun- 
shine shut  out,  a  young  lady  sitting  alone.  She 
sits  in  a  low  chair,  the  absolute  repose  o(  her  manner  telling 
of  intense  absori)tion — her  hands  clasi)ed  in  her  la[),  her  eyes 
fixed  on  the  door.  She  wears  black — a  trailing  black  silk  up 
to  the  throat,  down  to  the  wrists,  that  falls  with  the  ■aohfroK- 
frou  dear  to  the  feminine  heart,  whenever  she  moves,  unlit 
by  rose,  or  ribbon,  or  gem.  It  is  tiiat  consummation,  so  im- 
possible to  attain  except  by  the  very  rich — elegant  simi)li- 
city. 

She  has  been  waiting  here  for  ten  minutes.  There  is 
always  something  in  waiting,  in  expectation  that  makes  the 
heart  beat ;  Vera's  heart  is  going  like  a  trip-hammer,  her  eyes 
excitedly  gleam  ;  she  is  bracing  herself  for  the  most  trying 
ordeal  of  her  life.  It  moves  her  to  the  very  dei)ths  of  her 
being,  but  it  simply  must  be,  and  she  is  wise  enough  in  her 
two-and-twenty  years  to  know  the  folly  of  fighting  Eate. 

Perhaps  of  all  the  trying  positions  in  which  a  woman  can 
be  placed — and  life  holds  many — there  can  never  be  any  so 
thoroughly  humiliating  and  crushing,  as  the  knowledge  that 
she  has  been  forced  upon  the  acceptance  of  a  man  who  does 


■<  J.  If 


306        ''O,    IVE  FELL    OUT,  l  hW'OlV  NOT  irZ/V." 

not  want  licr.  'I'o  Vera  it  is  a  clear  case.  Slie  has  been 
guilty  of  a  foolish  fondness  for  a  man  who  gave  her  in  return, 
the  sort  of  amused  regard  he  might  give  the  gambols  of  a  kit- 
ten, but  who,  forced  by  his  friends  and  his  own  overdone  sense 
of  chivalry,  has  married  her. 

And  now  he  is  here  ;  he  comes  to-day  to  plead  for  his  legal 
freedom  th.it  he  may  marry  that  *' some  one  "  in  Cuba,  and 
she  must  stand  and  listen  to  the  cruelest,  most  humbling  words 
that  ever  were  spoken  l)y  man  to  woman  ! 

A  tap — I'elician  gently  o|)ens  the  door. 

"Colonel  FtVench,  mademoiselle,"  she  announces,  and 
goes. 

Vera  starts  up.  He  stands  before  her,  and  something  she 
might  have  thought  wistful  pleading,  if  seen  in  other  eyes, 
looks  at  her  out  of  his.     He  holds  out  his  hand. 

"  Fi'm  !  "  he  says,  in  a  tone  that  matches  the  look. 

She  makes  a  rapid  gesture  and  passes  him,  and  once  more 
his  hand  falls.  She  is  excited  as  sl""^  has  never  been  excited 
before  in  her  life.  She  trembles  through  all  her  fran)e,  so 
that  she  has  to  lay  hold  of  the  low  marble  mantel  for  support. 
Her  voice,  when  she  speaks,  is  not  like  the  voice  of  Vera. 

"  Oh,  wait !  "  she  says,  in  a  breathless  way,  "give  me  time. 
I  know  what  you  have  come  to  say,  but  wait — wait  one  mo- 
ment. Listen  to  me  first.  It  has  all  been  a  mistake — from 
first  to  last,  a  mistake  that  can  never  be  set  right,  but  I  am 
not  so  much  to  blame — so  much — to " 

She  breaks,  words  will  not  come,  the  words  she  wishes  to 
say.  She  tries  to  catch  her  breath  to  stop  the  rapid  beating 
of  her  heart. 

"  Oh  !  "  she  cries  out,  "  what  must  you  have  thought  of  me 
in  that  past  time — what  must  you  think  of  me  to-day !  How 
bad,  how  bold — Colonel  Ffrench  !  "  She  turns  to  him,  pas- 
sionately, and  holds  forth  both  hands,  "  for  Heaven's  sake 
try  to  believe  me  if  you  can  !  All  Mrs.  Charlton  said  to  you 
that  day  was  false — false  every  word.     It  seems  hard  to  cred- 


1.* 


has  been 
r  in  return, 
jIs  of  a  kit- 
done  sense 

'or  his  legal 

Cuba,  and 

bling  words 


unces,  and 

nething  she 
other  eyes, 

look. 

1  once  more 
•een  excited 
r  frame,  so 
for  sui)port. 
of  Vera, 
^e  nie  time, 
ait  one  mo- 
ake — from 
,  but  1  am 

e  wishes  to 
)id  beating 

3Ught  of  me 
ay !  How 
o  him,  pas- 
ven's  sake 
said  to  you 
ird  to  cred- 


"0,    n'f.  FELL  OUT,  I  KNOW  NOT  WHY.''       307 

it,  I  know,  but,  indeed,  indeed,  indeed,  wlien  I  went  to  you 
that  evening,  when  I  staiil  with  you  that  night,  I  had  no 
thought,  no  wish,  that  you — would — make  me  your — wife  !  " 

'I'he  words  that  nearly  stitle  her  are  out.  She  turns  from 
hini  again,  and  bows  her  tace  on  the  hands  that  clasp  the 
marble.  In  all  her  life  it  seems  to  her  she  can  never  suffer 
again  the  pain,  the  shame  she  sutlers  in  this  hour. 

For  Colonel  I'Trench  he  stands  and  looks  at  her.  The 
whole  scene,  her  excited  manner,  her  rapid  words,  seem 
literally  to  have  taken  away  his  breath.  Is  this  the  dignified, 
haughty,  self-possessed  princess  of  last  night — this  passion- 
ately-speaking woman,  shaken  like  a  reed  by  the  st(jrm  of 
feeling  within  her  ?  He  simply  stands  mute  ;  he  has  ex- 
pected somethmg  so  entirely  different,  and  looks  and  listens 
like  a  man  in  a  dream. 

"You  defended  me  from  my  enemy,  I  know,"  goes  on 
Vera,  still  in  that  agitated  voice  ;  "  every  word  of  that  inter- 
view is  stamped  on  my  remembrance.  It  was  like  you — you 
would  have  done  it  for  any  one  maligned.  She  wronged  me 
— try  and  believe  me  when  I  say  she  wronged  me  cruelly.  I 
went  in  all  innocence  that  night,  try  and  believe  that  too, 
with  no  thought  in  my  child's  heart  but  that  you  were  suffer- 
ing and  alone,  and  that — I  liked  you  so  much.  And  from 
that  hour,  until  I  sat  and  listened  to  Mrs.  Charlion,  no 
thought  of  the  actUiU  truth  ever  crossed  my  mind.  Dora 
told  me  nothing — nothing  tliat  was  true.  Neither  did  you. 
Oh  !  Richard  Ffrench,  neither  did  you  I  She  told  me  you 
wished  to  marry  me  before  you  went  awa}',  that  you — lu)\v 
shall  I  say  it  ? — cared  for  me  as  men  care  for  the  girls  they 
marry.  And  I  believed  her,  and  was  glad  ;  how  am  I  to 
deny  it?  and  I  wrote  you  that  poor,  foolish,  fatal  letter,  and 
you  came,  and  in  spite  of  your  coldness,  your  gloom,  I  never 
read  the  truth.  Until  Mrs.  Charlton  spoke  I  knew  nothing, 
and  then — Heaven  help  me — I  knew  all !  " 

She  catches  her  breath  with  a  dry,  husky  sob,  and  stops  for 


I 


rJ: 


Is 
i 


308         *<0,   WE  FELL  OUT,  I  KNOW  NOT  W/IVJ' 

a  moment.  Her  hands  are  locked  in  their  grasp  to  a  ten- 
sion of  pain.  It  seems  to  her  that  if  she  lets  go  her  hold  she 
will  turn  dizzy  and  fall. 

"You  went  away,"  she  hurries  on,  "and  I  was  alone,  and 
had  time  to  think.  Your  letter  came,  but  I  would  not  read 
it — then.  I  laid  it  away,  and  waited  until  the  muddle  would 
grow  clearer.  Time  might  have  soothed  and  softened  even 
what  I  felt  then,  if  something  else  had  not  come.  That 
something  else  was  a  letter  of  yours.  Colonel  Ffrench,  do 
you  recall  a  letter  you  wrote  to  Mr.  Charlton  just  after  my 
accei)tance  of  you  ?  In  that  letter  you  spoke  your  mind — 
how,  overpowered  by  the  tears  and  reproaches  of  Miss 
Lightwood,  to  save  my  honor,  to  shield  me  from  the  conse- 
quences of  my  own  act,  you  would  marry  me,  although  you 
knew  that  marriage  to  be  utter  folly  and  insanity — although 
I  would  be  an  incubus  to  you  for  life.  I  remember  it  all 
■ — so  well  !  so  well  !  I  found  it  among  some  papers  given 
me  by  Dora  to  read.  Mrs.  Charlton's  surmise  might  be  false 
or  true — that  mattered  little  ;  but  I  held  in  my  hand  that 
day  your  own  thoughts,  your  own  words,  and  knew  at  last, 
for  the  first  time,  the  full  extent  of  the  dreadful  mistake  that 
had  been  made.  If  you  had  but  told  me — if  Dora  had  but 
told  me  !  You  were  my  friend,  she  my  sister — but  you 
would  not.  I  was  a  child,  I  know,  but  I  would  have  under- 
stood, and  the  sacrifice  might  have  been  spareci.  Colonel 
PTrench,  your  life  may  have  been  spoiled  by  a  forced  mar- 
riage, but  tell  me,  if  you  can,  what  do  you  think  of  mine  ?  " 

He  cannot  speak  if  he  would,  but  she  gives  him  no  time. 
Carried  away  by  the  excitement  of  all  she  has  hidden  so  long, 
siie  is  unconscious  that  he  has  spoken  but  one  word — her 
name — since  he  has  entered ;  that  he  still  stands  mute  and 
motionless,  borne  down  by  the  whirlwind  of  her  passion  of 
grief  and  regret.  That  rainy  twilight  is  before  her — she  is 
back  at  Charlton,  with  the  wind  tossing  the  trees,  the  shine 
of  the  rain  on  the  lamp-lit  flags.     Dora  in  her  trailing  crape 


M  iiii;, 


BBc^^zaa 


<( 


O,   IVE  FELL  OUT,  I  KNOW  NOT  WHY:'       309 


o  a  ten- 
hold  she 

one,  and 
not  read 
,le  would 
led  even 
2.     That 
ench,  do 
after  my 
r  mind — 
of  Miss 
[le  conse- 
ough  you 
-although 
iber  it  all 
irs  given 
It  be  false 
pand  that 
,v  at  last, 
ake  that 
lad  but 
jut   you 
TO,  under- 
Colonel 
;ed  mar- 
liine?" 
no  time. 
so  long, 
ord — her 
ite  and 
ission  of 
— she  is 
he  shine 
ng  crape 


and  sables,  and  small,  ])ale  face,  and  she  herself  a  wan,  for- 
lorn little  figure  enough,  in  the  recess  of  the  window,  read- 
ing that  cruelcst  letter,  it  seems  to  her,  that  ever  man  wrote. 

"Well,"  she  says,  "all  that  is  past.  What  is  done  is 
done  ;  your  wife  you  made  me,  your  wife  I  am.  But,  Rich- 
ard Ffrench,  as  I  stand  here,  1  would  give  my  heart's  blood 
to  blot  out  that  d.:y — a  hundred  lives,  if  1  had  them,  to  be 
free  once  more  !  " 

He  makes  no  sign  ;  he  still  stands  hat  in  hand,  and  listens 
and  looks. 

"  I  liked  you  in  the  past,  in  those  Charlton  days.  Oh  !  I 
know  it  well ;  as  a  child  may  like,  with  no  thought  of  love 
or  marriage,  so  hear  me  Heaven,  any  more  than  if  I  had  been 
fiix  instead  of  sixteen.  Dora  spoke — you  were  silent,  and  I 
consented  to  marry  you.  You  thought  I  was  in  love  with 
you,  and  you  pitied  me  ;  I  had  endangered  my  reputation 
for  your  sake,  and  you  made  me  your  wife.  But,  Colonel 
Ffrench,  listen  here  !  I  was  not  in  love  with  you,  either 
then,  or  ever,  or  now — there  have  been  times  when  it  has 
been  in  my  heart  to  hate  you  since,  as  it  is  in  my  heart 
to  hate  you  as  you  stand  before  me  now.  You  did  me  a 
cruel  wrong  when  you  made  me  your  wife,  and,  as  1  say,  I 
would  lay  down  my  life  gladly,  willingly,  this  hour  to  be 
free!" 

She  has  never  intended  to  say  this,  to  go  so  far,  but  the 
force  of  excitement  that  shakes  her,  carries  her  away.  She 
sees  his  face  turn  slowly  from  its  clear,  sunburned  brown  to 
a  dead,  swarthy  white,  which  makes  her  draw  back,  even 
while  she  speaks. 

"  Understand  me,"  she  says,  in  a  steadier  voice,  "  I  knew 
you  meant  well,  honorably,  chivalrously,  but,  as  1  tell  you, 
it  was  a  mistake,  a  cruel,  dreadful,  irreparable  mistake.  No, 
not  irreparable — my  sister  tells  me  otherwise,  and  if  the  law 
will  give  you  back  freedom,  take  it !  tJicn  indeed  I  may 
learn  to  forgive  and  forget.     As  I  said  to  you  when  I  came 


\\ 


u 


310        "0,    PF£  FELL  our,    I  KNOW  NOT  W/IY.'*  ^^,^ 

in,  I  think  I  know  why  you  have  asked  for  this  interview — 
what  it  is  you  wish  to  say,  but  do  not  say  it — I  would  rather 
not  hear.  Dora  has  told  me  all  that  is  necessary  for  nie  to 
know.  For  the  rest,  I  wish  you  well  and  happy,  but  after 
to-day  I  see  no  reason  why  we  should  ever  meet  again.  \Ve 
have  managed  to  spoil  each  other's  lives — if  you  can  set  your 
own  life  right,  no  one  will  rejoice  more  than  1.  iiut  what- 
ever the  future  may  bring  you.  Colonel  Ffrench,  let  it  bring 
you  other  thoughts  of  me  than  those  you  must  have  had  in 
the  past.  Think  of  me  no  longer  as  a  girl  who  cared  for  you 
so  much  that  she  forgot  modesty  and  delicacy  and  ran  after 
you  wherever  you  went ;  but  think  of  me  as  a  poor,  igno- 
rant child,  who  knew  no  better  than  to  like  the  gentleman 
who  was  kind  to  her,  and  tried  to  amuse  her,  and  who  never 
knew  there  could  be  harm  or  shame  in  that  liking.  Think 
of  me  as  I  am — so  ashamed  of  that  past,  so  sorry,  so  hum- 
bled, that  never  for  one  hour  is  the  sickening  memory  absent 
from  me.  Thmk  of  me  as  a  woman  who  would  give  you 
back  your  freedom  by  the  sacrifice  of  her  life,  if  she  dared — 
as  a  woman  whose  own  existence  is  marred  and  darkened  by 
that  insane  marriage.  Let  us  meet  no  more,  let  us  speak  of 
it  no  more.  Our  ways  lie  apart — let  us  say  good-by,  here, 
now  and  forever." 

She  turns  from  him  as  she  says  it,  still  hurried,  breathless, 
scarcely  knowing  what  she  does.  He  makes  no  answer,  he 
makes  no  attempt  to,  he  makes  no  effort  to  set  himself  right 
— the  rush  of  her  rapid  words  has  carried  him  away  as  on  a 
torrent.  But  the  picture  she  makes  as  she  stands  there,  is 
with  him  to  the  last  day  of  his  life — beautiful,  impassioned, 
erect,  noble,  vindicating  her  womanhood,  a  memory  to  be 
with  him  when  he  dies. 

As  she  turns  to  go,  another  door  opens,  Dora  comes  in, 
and  stands  stricken  unite  on  the  threshold,  a  gorgeous  little 
vision,  all  salmon-pink,  silk,  and  pearls.  He  glances  at  her 
a  second,  then  looks  back,  but  in  that  glance  Vera  is  gone. 


auli(L' 


lii!:i; 


T'T" 


;rvie\v — 
id  rather 
jr  me  to 
Kit  after 
ain.    We 
I  set  your 
^ut  what- 
t  it  bring 
e  had  in 
d  for  you 
ran  after 
JOY,  igno- 
rentleman 
vho  never 
r.     Think 
,  SO  hum- 
ory  absent 
1   give  you 
le  dared — 
rkened  by 
s  speak  of 
-by,  here, 

)reathless, 
LHSwer,  he 
Inself  right 
ly  as  on  a 
Is  there,  is 
[passioned, 
)ry  to  be 

Icomes  in, 

feous  little 

Ices  at  her 

is  gone. 


CHARLTON  PLACE. 


311 


CHAPTER  IX. 


CHARLTON     PLACE. 


CTOBER.  The  yellow  after-light  of  a  lovely  day 
lingers  over  the  world,  glints  through  the  brown 
boles  of  the  maples  and  hemlocks,  burning  deep 
ruby  and  bright  orange  in  their  autumn  dress ;  flashes  away 
yonder  in  a  Uiillion  ripples  and  stars  of  light  on  the  mirror- 
like bay,  and  turns  the  western  windows  of  Charlton  Place 
into  sparks  of  fire.  Charlton  in  its  fall  splendor  of  rubies, 
and  russets,  and  yellows,  and  browns,  as  we  saw  it  once  be- 
fore with  Dora  Charlton  and  Vera  Ffrench  sitting  beneath 
its  waving  trees.  Six  years,  with  their  numberless  changes, 
have  conie  and  gone  since  then,  and  the  sisters  are  here 
once  more,  with  life  wearing  a  newer,  sadder,  stranger  face 
for  each.  Those  six  years  have  changed  Vera  into  a  beauti- 
ful woman,  wise  with  the  wisdom  that  is  twin  sister  to  sorrow, 
w.  .  a  wearier  light  in  the  large,  dark  eyes,  a  graver  sweetness 
in  the  smile  than  of  old.  Those  six  years  have  changed  Dora 
unutterably  for  the  worst — harder,  colder,  more  selfish,  more 
wordly  beyond  measure  she  is  than  even  the  hard,  selhsli  little 
woman  who  made  herself  Robert  Charlton's  wife.  Robert 
Charlton  lies,  with  folded  hands  and  the  daisies  above  him, 
over  in  St.  Jude's  church-yard,  a  monument  of  granite  and 
gilt  bearing  him  down,  and  setting  forth,  in  glowing  record, 
his  virtues.  Dora  is  the  wife  of  another  man — a  man  who 
never,  at  his  best,  was  worthy  to  tie  the  latchet  of  Robert 
Charlton's  shoes.  At  his  best  if  a  man  thoroughly  shallow, 
conceited,  and  vain  can  ever  have  any  best.  Two  years  and 
a  half  the  husband  of  the  rich  Mrs.  Charlton  have  left  him  at 
his  worst.     Dora's  greatest  enemy  could  hardly  wish  her  a 


n 


!  \i 


i": 


312 


CHARLTON  PLACE. 


more  wretched  fate  than  is  hers  as  Dane  Fanshawe's  wife. 
If  Richard  Ffrench  had  ever  desired  retributive  justice  to 
befall  the  little  usur[)er  who  stands  in  his  place  and  rules  it 
at  Charlton,  he  need  but  look  at  her  as  she  paces  up  and 
down  her  room  this  October  evening,  waiting  for  the  sound 
of  carriage  wheels  that  will  tell  her  her  nusband  has  come. 
Her  small  face,  pale  at  all  times,  is  bluish  in  its  pallor  now  ; 
the  rich  dinner-dress,  of  black  lustreless  silk  and  velvet,  that 
trails  after  her,  increases  that  pallor ;  her  olue  eyes  tiash 
with  that  lurid  light  of  rage  blue  eyes  only  can  flash  ;  her  lips 
are  set ;  her  little  hands  are  clenched. 

"  The  villain  !  "  she  breathes.  "  The  scoundrel  I  tne  liar  ! 
the  forger  !  After  all  I  have  done  for  him — all  he  has  made 
me  suffer — the  position  in  life  he  has  attained  through  me — 
to  return  me  this !  Oh,  1  hate  him  !  I  wish  I  had  been 
dead  before  I  ever  married  him  1  But  1  will  desert  him — I  will 
tell  him  so  this  very  night !  He  shall  learn  whether  1  am  to 
be  robbed  and  outraged  in  this  way  with  impunity  ! " 

She  clenches  her  hand  more  viciously  over  a  crushed 
l)aper  she  holds,  and  walks  e.Kcitedly  up  and  down  the  room. 
Now  and  then  she  puts  her  hand  over  her  heart,  as  a  sharp 
spasm  catches  hcv  breath.  Oh  !  these  spasms,  daily  increas- 
ing, daily  growing  sharper — harder  to  bear.  Is  it  not  enough 
to  be  a  martyr  to  them,  to  feel  with  an  a"'ful  thrill  of  horror 
that  at  any  moment  one  of  these  spasms  of  the  heart  may  stop 
that  heart's  beating  forever  ?  Is  not  this  enough  that  she 
must  also  bear  the  endless  misery  and  wrong  inflicted  upon 
her  by  her  heartless  husband  ?  If  she  only  did  not  care  for 
him  I  But  is  it  not  in  the  spaniel  nature  of  woman  to  love 
best  the  hand  that  strikes  hardest  ?  And  she  knows  she 
cares  for  him — that  she  could  not  leave  him  if  she  would,  in 
spite  of  infidelity,  coldness,  indifference,  slight — or  may  it  be 
said,  because  of  them  ?  She  cares  for  him,  and  that  is  why  the 
blows  fall  so  bitter  and  hard  to  bear.  It  is  only  those  we  love 
who  have  power  to  wound  our  hearts.     Others  may  stab  our 


I    I  i'lii; 


"^iauiiu, 


"1»^ 


CHARLTON  PLACE. 


313 


sh awe's  wife, 
/e  justice  to 
c  and  ruiL-s  it 
oaces  UP  and 
for  the   iound 
nd  has  come. 
s  pallor  now  ; 
id  velvet,  that 
lue  eyes  flash 
flash  ;  her  lips 

drel !  tiie  liar ! 
.11  he  has  made 
through  me — ■ 
sh  I  had  been 
;ert  him— I  will 
hother  1  am  to 
mity  ! " 

iver   a   crushed 
lown  the  room. 
:art,  as  a  sharp 
s,  daily  increas- 
s  it  not  enough 
thrill  of  horror 
heart  may  stop 
kough  that  she 
inflicted  upon 
;Ud  not  care  for 
woman  to  love 
she  knows  she 
i  she  would,  in 
t — or  may  it  be 
that  is  why  the 
^'  those  we  love 
■s  may  stab  our 


vanity,  our  amour  propre,  but  love  no  one  and  the  whole  world 
combined  will  never  break  your  heart.  She  is  in  the  white  heat 
of  rage  just  now,  and  in  that  rage  is  capable  of  saying  and 
doing  pretty  much  anything  ;  so  the  lookout  tliat  awaits  Mr. 
Dane  Fanshawe  is  not  a  \)leasant  one,  did  he  but  know  it. 
He  is  used  to  warm  receptions,  though  not  in  tlie  endearing 
sense,  and  the  knowledge  that  he  richly  deserves  every  rating 
he  gets,  and  a  good  many  he  does  not  get,  enables  him  to 
endure  them  with  philosophy.  Indeed,  this  gentleman  is  a 
philosopher,  or  nothing.  There  is  nothing  new,  and  nothing 
true,  and  it  doesn't  signify,  and  it  is  the  Song  of  the  Wife, 
the  world  over,  this  tune  Dora  loves  to  sing.  He  is  a  Sy- 
barite, and  never  lets  life's  rose-leaves  crumple  beneath  him 
if  he  can  ;  worry  glides  off  his  mind  as  dew  off  a  cabbage- 
leaf,  never  a  drop  sinks  in.  It  is  one  of  his  principles,  and 
about  the  only  principle  he  is  conscious  of. 

Two  months  have  passed  since  the  return  of  the  Dane 
Fanshawes  and  Miss  Martinez  from  their  prolonged  Euro- 
pean sojourn — two  months  spent  alternately  at  Newport  and 
in  New  York.  Mrs.  Fanshawe  left  Newport  in  haste,  be- 
cause Mr.  Fanshawe  became  suddenly  and  violently  epris  of 
a  certain  dashing  young  widow  of  two-and-twenty,  which  gay 
little  fisher  of  men  netted  all  alike,  married  or  single.  They 
spent  September  in  New  York,  and  the  transition  realized 
the  truth  of  the  old  saw — "  out  of  the  frying  pan  into  the 
fire."  Mr.  Fanshawe's  excesses  were  simply  maddening  to  Mr. 
Fanshawe's  wife.  The  green-eyed  monster  laid  hold  of  Dora's 
poor  little  heart,  go  where  she  would,  and  never — let  it  be 
said  for  Mr.  Fanshawe — never  once  without  good,  solid, 
substantial  reason.  Tlie  latest  reason  was  a  popular  oi)era- 
howH^  prima-donna.,  substantial  in  the  sense  that  she  weighed 
well  on  to  two  iiundred  avoirdupois.  The  bracelets,  diamond 
rings,  bou(iuets,  and  poodles — this  last  melodious  luxury  had 
a  passion  for  poodles — that  found  their  way  to  Mile.  Lalage's 
hotel,  and  that  Dora's  money  paid  for,  would  have  driven 
14 


314 


CHARLTON'  PLACE. 


'k- 


m 


'if  !!'• 


:   .   " 


Dora  mad  had  she  known  it.  What  she  did  know  was,  that 
Mr.  Fanshawe  Hved  at  the  rate  of  about  twenty  thousand 
dollars  a  year,  and  that  even  the  Charlton  ducats  would  not 
hold  out  forever  with  a  double,  treble,  fourfold  drain  upon 
them.  The  paper  she  holds  in  her  hand  to-day  is  the  last 
straw  that  breaks  the  <  unel's  back — it  is  a  forged  check  for 
the  sum  of  five  thousand  dollars,  and  Dora  is  white  with 
passion  to  the  very  lips.  Large  as  her  income  is,  she  lives 
beyond  it — doubly  beyond  it,  as  Mr.  Fanshawe  draws  ui)on 
her.  She  dresses  herself  and  Vera  superbly,  she  denies  her- 
self no  pleasure,  no  luxury  that  money  can  buy ;  but  if  the 
forged  check  system  begins,  before  five  years  more  she  will 
be  as  she  was  in  the  Dora  Lightwood  days — penniless.  And 
it  seems  to  her  now,  after  these  years  of  wealth,  that  sooner 
than  go  back  to  that  phase  of  existence,  she  would  glide 
quietly  out  of  life  in  a  double  dose  of  morphine. 

Hark  !  Carriage-wheels  at  last,  driving  as  Mr.  Fanshawe 
drives  always,  recklessly  fast.  She  pauses  in  her  walk,  her 
eyes  glittering  with  passionate  excitement,  and  waits  and 
listens.  She  was  ill  when  he  went  up  to  New  York  two  days 
ago — surely  common  decency  will  send  him  first  of  all  to  her 
side.  But  common  decency  and  Dane  Fanshawe  long  ago 
shook  hands  and  ])arted — he  does  ?iot  come  to  his  wife.  She 
hears  him  run  upstairs  whistling  cheerily,  pass  on  to  his  own 
rooms  quite  at  the  other  end  of  the  passage,  and  the  door 
close  after  him  with  a  bang.  She  waits  two,  four,  ten  min- 
utes, then  patience  ceases  to  be  a  virtue.  She  flings  wide 
her  door,  and  raises  her  voice— always  of  unsuitable  compass 
for  her  small  body,  and  shriller  now  and  more  piercing  than 
ever,  sharpened  as  its  edge  is  by  anger. 

"Mr.  Fanshawe." 

"  My  angel  !  "  promj)tly  and  pleasantly  comes  the  re- 
sponse. Mr.  Fanshawe  knows  better  than  to  feign  deafness 
when  Mrs.  Fanshawe  calls  in  that  tone.  His  door  opens,  he 
stands  half  diyested  of  his  dusty  travelling  suit  just  within  it. 


Si  =n:> 


■P*^*! 


CHARLTON  PLACE. 


315 


\r  was,  that 
\j  thousand 
would  not 
haul  upon 
is  the  last 
[  check  for 
white  with 
s,  she  lives 
[raws  ui)on 
denies  her- 
;  but  if  the 
)re  she  will 
iless.     And 
that  sooner 
kvould  glide 

•,  Fan sh awe 
er  walk,  her 
i  waits  and 
rk  two  days 
of  all  to  her 
ve  long  ago 
wife.     She 
to  his  own 
d  the  door 
ir,  ten  min- 
flings  wide 
3le  compass 
ercing  than 


lies  the  re- 
s:n  deafness 
iar  opens,  he 
St  within  it. 


"Come  here,  if  you  please,"  commands  Dora  in  a  voice 
that  would  go  very  well  with  a  box  in  the  ear,  and  to  toll 
the  truth  it  is  the  very  endearment  Dora's  little  fist  is  tingling 
to  administer. 

Mr.  Fanshawe  looks  in  plaintive  api)oal  from  his  wife  to 
his  dishabille. 

"My  angel,"  he  murmurs,  "if  you  could  wait,  although 
I  know  you  won't,  until  I  have  had  a  bath,  and  dressed 
for " 

"  Never  mind  your  dress.  Such  wedded  lovers  as  we  are 
need  not  stand  on  the  order  of  their  costume  surely.  Come 
here  at  once." 

"  Now  I  wonder  what  is  the  latest  indictment,"  says  Mr. 
Fanshawe  to  himself  with  a  gentle  sigh,  but  obeying.  "My 
lady  looks  as  if  the  jury  had  found  a  true  bill." 

He  enters  his  wife's  room,  deprecatingly,  submissively.  If 
a  few  gentle  looks,  a  few  pleasant  words,  even  a  few  off-hand 
husbandly  caresses  will  soothe  her  down,  he  is  willing,  most 
willing,  more  than  willing  indeed,  to  administer  them.  They 
cost  so  little,  and  he  has  known  them  to  go  so  far.  Like 
penny  buns,  they  are  cheap,  and  very  filling  at  the  price. 
Fine  words  may  not,  as  a  rule,  butter  parsnips,  but  from  a 
neglectful  husband  to  a  weak-minded  wife  they  do  wonders. 
Mr.  Fanshawe  has  tried  their  power  and  knows.  So  he  gives 
Dora  a  pleasant  look,  a  pleasant  little  smile,  and  holds  out 
his  hand  to  draw  her  to  him.  But  Dora  waves  him  off  and 
back,  standing  like  a  small,  furious,  tragedv-queen  \\\  her 
sweeping  silks  and  velvet,  and  thread  lace,  her  blue  eyes 
alight  with  rage,  her  little  figure  quivering  in  the  intensity  of  its 
passion.  Her  husband  has  done  as  much,  and  more  than  this, 
many  a  time  before,  but  she  is  smarting  under  a  long  course 
of  slight  and  wrong,  and  pain  and  affront,  and  this  is  just 
the  last  drop  in  a  brimming  cup.  He  sees  that  it  is  a  hope- 
less case,  the  coming  tornado  is  not  to  be  averted ;  so,  with 
a  gentle  regretful  sigh,  he  sinks  wearily  into  the  softest  chair 


I 


;-  ,  t 


■%  ' 


316 


CHARLTON  PLACE. 


the  room  contains.  There  is  to  be  a  scene  ;  it  is  inevitable. 
Poor  soul !  it  is  her  greatest  failing,  this  tendency  to  make 
scenes.  They  bore  him  horribly  ;  reproaches  tire  him  ;  and 
it  is  so  foolish  of  poor  Dora,  too,  for  they  do  no  good  ;  they 
never  by  any  possibility  can  do  good,  and  it  is  bad  for  her 
health  and  everything.  He  really  wonders  at  her.  It  would 
be  so  much  more  pleasant  all  round,  if  she  would  but  take 
things  easily.  He  never  finds  fault  with  her.  What  is  it 
now  ?  Can  his  having  escorted  Mile.  Lalage  to  Rockaway 
yesterday,  and  given  her  those  diamond  ear-rings,  have  come 
to 

Mrs.  P'anshawe  saves  him  all  further  surmise.  She  holds 
out  the  crumjiled  paper,  in  a  blaze  of  wrath. 

*'  Dane  Fanshawe  !  "  she  cries  ;  "do  you  see  this  ?  " 

The  question  is  pertinent,  for  Mr.  Fanshawe  lies  back  in 
his  soft  chair,  his  handsome  blonde  head  lying  against  its 
azure  silk  back,  his  handsome  blue  eyes  closed,  apparently 
sinking  gently  into  sweetest  slumber.  But  at  this  ringing 
question  he  looks  up. 

"  That,  my  love  ?  "  He  deliberately  puts  up  his  eye-glass, 
and  inspects  it.  "  Well,  really,  you  know,  one  piece  of 
paper  looks  so  much  like  another,  that " 

"  It  is  your  forged  check  for  five  thousand  dollars  !  " 

"  Ah  !  "  says  Mr.  Fanshawe,  and  drops  his  glass.  "  Yes, 
the  forged  check."  He  looks  his  wife  steadily,  quietly,  de- 
liberately, in  the  eyes.  "Yes,"  he  says  again,  "it  has  a 
familiar  look,  now  that  I  see  it  more  closely.  Well  my  love," 
— a  sneer,  devilish  in  its  calm,  cold  blooded  malignity — 
"  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it  ?  " 

She  lays  her  hand  on  her  heart,  and  stands  panting,  look- 
ing at  him.  One  of  these  ghastly  twinges  has  just  grasped 
her,  her  lips  turn  blue,  her  breath  comes  brokenly ;  she  ab- 
solutely cannot  speak,  so  deadly  is  her  anger. 

He  sits  and  regards  her  unmoved,  his  face  hardening 
slowly  until  for  all  feeling  it  shows,  it  might  be  a  handsome 


I  ^■*. 


'-^tMk 


CHARLTON  PLACE. 


317 


2vitable. 
;o  make 
in  ;  and 
)d  ;  they 
for  her 
It  would 
but  take 
hat  is  it 
ockaway 
,ve  come 

he  holds 

s?" 

;  back  in 
^ainst  its 
[jparently 
s  ringing 

eye-glass, 
piece  of 

k  !  " 

"  Yes, 
lietly,  de- 
it  has  a 
ny  love," 
ilignity  — 

mg,  look- 
t  grasped 
she  ab- 

lardening 
landsome 


mask  of  white  stone.  Not  one  faintest  touch  of  compassion 
for  *the  woman  before  him  moves  him.  An  evil  life  has 
thoroughly  brutalized  and  hardened  him  ;  under  all  his  soft, 
society  languor,  half  real,  half  affected,  there  is  the  pitiless 
heart  of  a  tiger, 

"  This — this  is  all  you  have  to  say,"  she  gasps. 

"  All,"  says  Mr.  Fanshawe,  and  watches  her  unflinch- 
ingly. 

His  hard,  pitiless  gaze,  something  in  the  cold,  cruel  steadi- 
ness of  his  face  frightens  her — appalls  her.  She  realizes  for 
the  first  time  that  she  is  talking  to  a  man  of  flint — that 
beneath  those  sleepy  blue  eyes,  that  low  trainante  voice,  that 
silken  smile,  their  is  neither  heart  to  feel,  soul  to  pity,  nor 
conscience  to  know  remorse.  Her  hands  drop  ;  for  the  first 
time  she  has  found  her  master.  In  all  their  marital  battles 
hitherto  she  has  stormed  on  to  the  end,  and  he  has  listened, 
bored,  wearied,  but  resigned.  "  I  have  drank  the  wine — 1 
must  take  the  lees,"  his  patient  silence  has  said. 

But  this  is  different — something,  she  cannot  define  what, 
in  his  face,  in  his  eyes,  turns  her  cold  with  a  slow,  creeping 
sense  of  fear.  She  shrinks  from  him  and  turns  without  a 
word.  There  is  a  blank,  thrilling  pause.  Not  even  when 
she  goes  to  the  window  and  looks  out  does  he  avert  that 
basilisk  stare.  P'or  Dora — her  transport  of  rage  is  gone,  the 
whole  world  seems  dropping  away  from  under  her  feet.  She 
is  realizing,  in  a  strange,  appalled  sort  of  way,  that  this  man, 
nearer  and  more  to  her  than  any  other  human  being  on 
earth,  is  a  villain,  and  a  villain  without  one  redeeming  trait 
of  love  or  pity  for  herself.  Heaven  help  the  wife  to 
whom  this  truth  comes  home — good  or  ill  she  may  be — but 
Heaven  help  her  in  that  hour,  for  help  on  earth  there  can  be 
none. 

"  Is  this  the  end  ?  "  asks  the  deliberate  voice  of  Mr.  Fan- 
shawe,  at  last.  ■  **May  I  go  and  dress,  or  haii  more  got  to  be 
oaid?" 


h 


3i8 


CHARLTON  PLACE. 


I'; 


1 1 

■If 


I 


*'Go!"  she  answers,  in  a  stilled  voice,  "and  I  pray 
Heaven  I  may  never  see  your  bitter,  bad  face  again."    • 

She  covers  her  own  with  her  hands,  crushed  as  he  has 
never  seen  her  crushed  in  their  married  Hfe  before.  She 
sinks  down  on  her  knees  by  the  bed,  and  hides  her  white, 
quivering  fiice  upon  it.  For  him,  he  rises  and  stands  gazing 
down  upon  her,  not  one  trace  of  the  hard  maHgnity  leaving 
him. 

"  Listen  to  me,"  he  says,  *'  /  have  a  word  or  two  to  say, 
and  as  I  don't  speak  often — in  this  way — 1  hope  it  will  have 
weight.  There  comes  a  time  in  the  lives  of  most  men,  I 
su[)pose,  however  long-suffering,  when  curtain-lectures  fall 
and  conjugal  tirades  weary.  1  have  borne  them  for  two 
years  and  a  iialf.  I  decline  to  bear  them  longer.  I  married 
you  for  your  money — you  are  listening,  1  hope,  Mrs.  Fan- 
shawe  ? — and  you  know  it,  or  if  you  do  not,  the  fault  is 
your  own.  It  was  not  worth  while  to  try  double-dealing ;  I 
never  strove  to  deceive  you,  or — if  you  will  pardon  me — to 
win  you.  J  married  you  for  your  money,  and  your  money  I 
mean  to  spend,  if  not  by  fair  means,  why,  then  by  foul.  I 
asked  you  for  one  thousand  dollars  a  week  ago  ;  you  refused, 
and  V  ere  abusive,  according  to  your  amiable  custom.  I 
said  nothing  ;  I  took  the  easier  plan— 1  went  and  drew  the 
money.  I  am  disposed  to  be  agreeable  myself;  I  like  peace, 
and  pleasant  smiles,  and  friendly  words,  and  I  mean  to  have 
them — if  not  at  home,  wiiy,  then  abroad.  If  you  raged  till 
the  day  of  doom  you  could  not  change  me  or  my  intentions 
one  iota.  It  is  foolish  on  your  i)art — it  is  telling  on  you,  my 
angel ;  you  are  growing  i)rematurely  old  and  disagreeably 
thin — scraggy,  indeed,  1  may  say — and  if  there  is  one  creature 
on  this  earth  I  abhor  it  is  a  thin  woman.  Take  my  advice, 
Mrs.  Fanshawe — it  is  the  tirst  time  I  have  proffered  it,  it 
shall  be  the  last — while  we  live  together  let  us  sign  a  treaty 
of  peace.  What  I  am  I  intend  to  remain.  Money  I  must 
and  will  have  ;  amusement  I  must  and  will  have  also.     The 


I 


I   I  Hi!) 


mma 


CHARLTON  PLACE. 


319 


1  I  pray 
1."  • 
I  he  has 
re.  She 
:r  white, 
Is  gazing 
'  leaving 

)  to  say, 
vill  have 
men,  I 
iires  fall 
for  two 
married 
Irs.  Fan- 
fault  is 
aling ;  I 
me — to 
money  I 
foul.     I 
refused, 
;tom.     I 
Irew  the 
e  peace, 
to  have 
iged   till 
tentions 
you,  my 
^reeably 
creature 
advice, 
ed  it,  it 
a  treaty 
J  I  must 
3.     The 


check  I  admit.  It  is  tlie  hrst  time  ;  if  you  loosen  your 
piusestrings  a  little,  it  may  be  the  last.  Pardon  me  for 
having  inflicted  this  long  speech  upon  you,  but  a  man  must 
strike  in  self-defense.  Are  you  quite  sure  you  have  no  more 
to  say  ?     I  am  going." 

She  makes  a  gesture,  but  does  not  speak — a  gesture  so 
full  of  stricken  despair  that  it  might  have  moved  him,  but  it 
does  not.  Tliere  is  absolutely  a  smile  on  his  lips  as  he 
turns  to  go.     He  is  victor. 

"A  new  version  of  tlie  'Taming  of  the  Shrew,'"  he 
thinks.  **  I'oor  soul !  she  dies  hard,  but  it  will  do  her  good 
in  the  end." 

"  He  ain't  never  a  comin'  back  I  s'pose.  Yer  don't  know 
nothin'  'bout  him,  do  yer  ?  Yer  hain't  never  seen  him  no- 
where, have  yer  ?  It's  pcnverful  lonesome — oh  !  lordy, 
powerful  lonesome — sence  Cap'n  Dick  went  away." 

It  is  Daddy  who  thus  delivers  himself.  He  stands  shuffling 
from  one  foot  to  the  other,  as  if  the  sand  burned  him,  twist- 
ing his  old  felt  hat  between  his  hands,  his  dull,  protruding 
eyes  fixed  wistfully  on  the  lady  who  sits  on  the  grass.  She 
looks  ui),  lifting  two  lovely,  soft,  dark,  tender  eyes  to  his 
face. 

"  No,  Daddy,"  she  answers  ;  "  I  am  afraid — I  don't  think 
he  is  ever  coming  back." 

Her  eyes  wander  from  his  face,  and  look  far  away  across 
the  gold  and  rose  light  of  the  sunset.  Tliose  large  dark  eyes 
have  aM  wistful  a  light,  as  pathetic  a  meaning,  as  poor 
Daddy's  own,  and  she  stretches  out  one  dusk,  slim  hand,  with 
brilliants  lighting  in,  and  touches  gently  the  grimy  one  of  the 
"  softy." 

*'  You  are  sorry  ?"  she  says  softly. 

"Oh!  ain't  I  just!"  responds  Daddy  with  a  burst.  "Lor! 
how  I  hev  gone  and  missed  him.  Why,  lordy  !  it  seems  like 
a  hundred  years  sence  he  went  away.  1  ain't  had  the  life  of 
a  dog  sence  then.     He  was  good  to  me,  he  was,"  says  Daddy, 


320 


GHARLTON  PLACE. 


'  1 


drawing  one  grimy  sleeve  across  his  eyes;  "he  was  most 
awful  good  to  me  allers." 

'*  Poor  fello'"  !"  Vera  says,  with  a  pity  deeper  than  Daddy 
can  comprehend. 

"  1  ain't  had  no  peace  o'  my  life  ever  sence,"  he  goes  on, 
crying,  and  smearing  his  dirty  sleeve  across  his  dirty  face. 
"  I'm  kicked  about,  and  half  starved  most  the  time,  and  took 
up  the  rest.  I'm  took  up  so  continiwal,"  cries  Daddy,  "for 
wagrancyand  no  wisible  lueans  o'  s'[)ort,  that  I  a'most  wishes 
they  would  keep  me  took  up  altogether.  Nobody's  never 
good  to  me  now  anymore,  and  he  was — oh,  he  was  most 
uncommon  !     And  he  ain't  never  a  comin'  back  no  more  ?" 

"No  more,"  Vera  repeats.  "Oh,  Daddy,  no  more!" 
And  then  she,  too,  breaks  down,  and  for  a  while  there  is 
silence.  She  sits  on  a  green  knoll  just  above  the  shore,  the 
long  marsh  grass,  and  rank  llame -colored  Howers,  nodding 
about  her,  the  sea  wind  blowing  her  dark,  loose  hair  as  she 
sits,  her  hat  on  her  lap.  At  her  feet  stretches  away  the  long 
dreary  sweep  of  sand  dune,  before  her  lies  Shaddeck  ]?ay 
with  the  amber  glitter  of  the  sunset  in  it,  to  the  left  Shaddeck 
Ligiit,  falling  sun-brown  and  wind-beaten,  to  rottenness  and 
decay.  To  the  right  lies  St.  Ann's,  a  few  sounds  of  life 
coming  from  it  fain^  md  far  off — the  rumble  of  a  passing 
cart  over  the  :till  streets  (juite  audible  here.  I'oats  glide 
about  with  the  led  glare  on  their  sails.  Daddy  lingers  near, 
ugly,  dirty,  ragged,  as  unpicturesque  an  object  as  eye 
could  see,  with  a  handful  of  currency  in  his  [)ocket,  and 
wondering  admiration  for  the  beauty  of  the  lady  before  him, 
staring  vaguely  in  his  untutored,  masculine  soul.  She  looks 
up  with  a  start  from  her  reverie  at  last. 

"  I  won't  detain  you  any  longer,"  she  says,  gently.  "  Re- 
member, whenever  you  are  in  trouble,  or  in  want,  come  to 
me.  Do  not  be  afraid.  I  will  see  you  always,  help  you 
always.  I  intend  to  find  you  a  home  somewhere  ;  you  shall 
be  starved  and  beaten  no  longer,  my  poor,  poor  Daddy !   I/e 


ras  most 

11  Dackly 

goes  on, 

irty  face. 

:uul  took 

Idy,  "for 

St  wishes 

-'s  never 

'as  most 

more  ?  " 

more  !  " 

there  is 

lore,  the 

nodding 

ir  as  she 

the  long 

eck  ]?ay 

haddeck 

ness  and 

s  of  life 

passing 

Its  glide 

irs  near, 

as    eye 

ket,  and 

re  him, 

\e  looks 

"Re- 
ome  to 
2lp  you 
ou  shall 
y!   He 


CHARLTON  PLACE. 


321 


was  good  to  you — I  cannot  take   his  place,  but   I  will  do 
what  I  can." 

"Thanky,"  Daddy  says,  with  a  last  wipe  of  the  coat-sleeve 
across  the  bleared  eyes.  **  Yes,  he  were  most  uncommon 
good  to  mc,  he  were." 

So  he  shambles  away,  and  Vera  sits  still  a  long  time, 
her  eyes  full  of  fathomless  pain  and  regret.  It  is  a  month 
nearly  since  their  return  to  Charlton— a  week  since  that 
interview  between  Mr.  and  Afrs.  ''ansha.vc,  jf  which  Dora 
has  not  told  her.  Dora  has  been  strangely  cpiiet  since  that 
time.  Mr.  Fanshawe  has  iliictiiated  between  New  York  and 
St.  Ann's  in  his  usual  inconsecjuent  fashion,  and  Mrs.  Fan- 
shawe has  com))ressed  her  lii)S  ominously,  and  said  nothing. 
Perhaps  she  has  an  object  in  view,  her  birthday  is  near — 
her  thirty-third,  alas  !  She  gives  a  large  party,  the  house  is 
filled  already  with  guests  from  New  York,  others  are  coming, 
the  **  fn-st  families  "  of  St.  Ann's  are  bidden,  Mrs.  l''anshawe 
means  to  outdo  Mrs.  Fanshawe.  And  she  determines  her 
husband  shall  be  present. 

It  is  the  rarest  of  rare  things  for  Mr.  Fanshawe  to  grace 
his  wife's  festivities.  No  one  is  more  rarely  seen  at  Charlton 
than  its  nominal  master ;  but  on  her  birthday  he  must,  he 
shall  be  present.  The  world  is  beginning  to  talk  of  their 
connubial  infelicity,  ladies  to  smile  and  shrug  their  shoulders, 
and  comment  after  the  usual  charitable  fashion  of  the  sex. 
What  would  you  ?  She  is  fully  six  years  his  senior ;  she 
looks  fully  six  years  older  than  she  is  ;  she  is  faded,  soured, 
sickly,  peevish,  jealous  ;  and  gentlemen,  you  know,  will  be 
gentlemen,  etc.,  etc.  He  never  cared  for  her,  he  married 
her  for  her  money — he  admits  it ;  no  one  ever  sees  him 
with  her  ;  no  one  ever  meets  him  at  Charlton.  And  they 
do  say  he  and  Lalage— dreadful  creature  ! — are  out  in  the 
park  every  fine  afternoon,  and  that  he  drives  four-in-hand  with 
the  coaching-club  to  High  Bridge,  Lalage  beside  him  on 
the  box,  smoking  cigarettes  all  the  way. 
14* 


r^ 

1:1 

! 

'  2* ' 

■ 

1. 1 

'  f 

1' 

if  =  ^ 


322 


CHARLTON  PLACE. 


Dora  knows  it  all,  and  sets  her  small  teeth  in  impotent 
anger  and  despair.  Ikit  he  shall  attend  her  birthday  ball — 
common  decency  requires  that.  She  has  asked  him  calmly, 
with  forced  composure,  and  he  has  assented  carelessly. 

**  Oh,  yes  ;  of  course ;  that  will  be  all  right ;  he  will  be 
on  hand.  The  twenty-second  or  twenty-seventh — which  is  it  ? 
He  has  the  deuce  and  all  of  a  memory  for  dates." 

He  pulls  out  a  little  betting-book,  and  looks  at  her  with 
his  pleasant  smile.  Dora's  lip  quivers  ;  she  is  strangely  sub- 
dued those  last  few  days,  and  is  looking  wretchedly  ill. 

"  The  twenty-third,"  she  answers,  and  turns  from  him 
abruptly.  There  are  husbands  who  remember  their  wives* 
birthdays,  and  their  wedding-days,  and  such  domestic  foolish 
anniversaries,  but  Mr.  Dane  Fanshawe  is  not  of  their  order. 
Still  he  makes  a  memorandum  of  it,  ai;d  that  night  asks  his 
wife  for  more  money. 

Her  eyes  Hash,  but  she  retains  her  calm.  She  has  no 
money  to  s[)are.  They  have  been  horribly  extravagant ;  she 
has  purchased  a  diamond  collar,  and  this  party  is  costing  en- 
ormously. It  is  quite  impossible.  She  looks  up  at  him  in- 
flexibly as  she  says  it.  He  smiles  slightly,  returns  her  look, 
and  moves  away,  humming  a  tune. 

Vera  sits  on  her  grassy  seat,  and  watches  the  crimson,  and 
scarlet,  and  orange  splendor  of  the  sunset  fade  into  pink,  and 
primrose,  and  fleecy  white,  then  into  pallid  gray,  slowly  lit 
and  gemmed  with  golden  stars.  The  gray  deepens  to  gloom  ; 
a  chill  night- wind  rises,  a  cold,  sad  sigh  from  the  great  Atlan- 
tic. The  tide  ebbs  away,  and  the  long,  black  bar  is  bare — 
that  bar  over  which  she  walked  to  Shaddeck  Light  and  Rich- 
ard Ffrench.  How  lonely  is  the  night,  and  the  sea,  and  the 
stars ! — the  night  with  its  long,  low,  lamentable  wind  !  the 
sea  with  its  mighty  monotone,  its  deep,  eternal,  melancholy 
plaint !  the  stars  so  far  ofl"  in  their  tremulous,  mysterious 
beauty  !  "  The  stars  were  called,  and  they  said,  *  We  are 
here,'  and  they  shone  forth  with  gladness  to  Him  who  made 


wmmmm 


CHARLTON  PLACE. 


323 


impotent 
lay  ball — 
m  calmly, 
i5sly. 

le  will  be 
'hich  is  it  ? 

:  her  with 
ngely  sub- 
^ill. 

from  him 
leir  wives' 
itic  foolish 
leir  order, 
it  asks  his 

le  has  no 
Lgant ;  she 
costing  en- 
at  him  in- 
;  her  look, 

imson,  and 

)  pink,  and 

slowly  lit 

to  gloom  ; 

reat  Atlan- 

r  is  bare — 

;  and  Rich- 

2a,  and  the 

wind  !  the 

nelancholy 

mysterious 

1,  '  We  are 

who  made 


them."  Something  stirs  in  Vera's  heart  with  a  great  and  sol- 
emn thrill— after  all,  one  may  live  for  others,  and  to  win  a 
place  beyond  these  golden  clusters,  even  when  one's  own  life 
has  come  to  an  end. 

Where  is  Richard  Ffrench  ?  Vera  does  not  know.  She 
has  neither  heard  from  him,  nor  of  him,  since  that  summer 
afternoon  in  London.  He  is  in  Cuba,  perhaps— fighting 
once  more,  or  wounded,  or  ill,  or  dead.  She  kno.vs  nothing. 
She  reads  all  the  Cuban  news,  but  she  never  sees  his  name.  Of 
what  followed  after  her  interview,  between  him  and  Dora,  she 
does  not  know.  Dora  has  never  said,  she  has  never  aske  ^ 
What  does  it  matter  ?  All  is  dead  and  done  with,  the  story 
is  over,  the  book  is  closed,  her  romance  is  ended  ;  there  is 
nothing  left  but  to  begin  again,  with  all  life's  sweetest  possi- 
bilities shut  out. 

Darkness  closes  down,  darkness  braided  with  sparkling 
stars.  The  sea  lies  a  great,  sighing,  black  mystery;  the 
wmd  has  the  icy  breath  of  coming  winter  in  its  sweep.  Shad- 
deck  Light  is  only  a  darker  shadow  among  the  shadows, 
desolate,  forsaken,  forlorn— something  to  shudder  at.  How 
strange  to  think  she  ever  si)ent  a  night  there  ;  no  one  will 
ever  si)end  a  night  th^re  again.  She  rises,  chill  in  the  frosty 
wind,  puts  on  her  hat,  wraps  her  shawl  about  her,  and  turns 
to  go  home.  Dora's  guests  will  miss  her,  and  her  life  belongs 
to  Dora  now. 

Poor  little  Dot !  how  sorry  she  is  for  her— how  thin  and 
worn  she  grows— how  frightfully  frequent  are  those  terrible 
heart-pangs.  It  is  all  she  can  do  not  to  hate  Dane  Fanshawe 
—this  cruel,  smiling,  suave  fine  gentleman,  who  breaks  his 
wife's  heart  as  coolly  and  with  as  little  compunction  as  he 
shoots  a  sea-gull.  In  every  human  face  there  lies  latent  a 
look  of  cruelty— circumstances  may  or  may  not  bring  it  out, 
but  it  is  there— in  his,  though,  more  markedly  than  in  most. 
Hut  she  is  i)Owerless— it  is  simply  one  of  the  things  that  must 
be  left  alone— the  less  said  to  Dora  the  better.     He  is  always 


324 


CHARLTON  PLACE. 


'  1 » 

it 


ft 


!>' 


* 


especially  attentive  and  deferential  to  herself-— she  is  a  young 
and  handsome  woman,  and  she  is  net  his  wife.  What  a  tre- 
mendous puzzle  life  is — the  truth  comes  well  home  to  Miss 
Martinez  this  evening,  as  she  flutters  swiftly  homeward  in  the 
black  night  breeze — hard  to  enter,  h^irder  to  live  through,  and 
hardest  of  all  to  end  ! 

The  house  is  all  lit  when  she  draws  near,  its  whole  front 
sparkling  with  light.  She  enters  and  passes  upstairs  to  her 
room.  Every  one  is  dressing  for  dinner — it  is  a  full-dress  cer- 
emonial  every  day  now,  and  then  there  follows  the  long 
evening  in  the  drawing-room,  with  music,  and  flirtation,  and 
carpet  dances,  and  cards.  Vera  wearies  of  it  all,  not  that  life 
has  grown  a  bore,  or  pleasure  begun  to  pall,  but  satiety  does 
beget  disgust.     She  taps  at  Dora's  door  on  her  way. 

"  Come  in,"  says  Dora's  voice. 

Vera  enters,  and  stands  in  wonder. 

What  is  the  matter  with  Dot  ?  There  is  a  fierce,  wild  fire 
in  her  eyes,  her  pale  face  is  excited,  she  sits  writing  rapidly 
at  her  desk.  A  buff  envelope  lies  on  the  floor,  a  paper — a 
telegram  near  it. 

"  Read  that,"  Dora  says. 

She  spurns  with  her  foot  the  paper,  and  writes  on.  Vera 
stoops  and  picks  it  up.  It  is  from  xVIr.  Fanshawe,  and  is  dated 
Philadelphia. 

"  Cannot  come  on  twenty-third.  Must  manage  the  high  jinks  without 
me.  Obliged  to  go  to  Baltimore.  Wish  you  many  happy  returns  all 
the  same. 

**  Dane  Fanshawe." 

Vera  drops  the  telegram  as  if  it  had  stung  her  ;  she  knows 
how  Dora  has  set  her  heart  on  his  being  present  iX  the  ball. 

"  Oh,  this  is  too  bad,  too  bad  ! "  she  cries  out. 

Dora  looks  up  ;  to  the  last  day  of  her  hfe  Vera  never  for. 
gets  that  look,  nor  the  slow,  weird,  icy  smile  that  goes  with 
it. 


'•s^. 


^""""^T 


HUSBAND  AND    WIFE, 


325 


"  Lalage  is  in  Philadelphia,"  she  says. 
"Dot!" 

"  He  has  gone  after  her.     How  do  I  know  ?     I  have  em- 
ployed  a  detective  !  " 

_  She  laughs  aloud  at  her  sister's  start  and  look  of  consterna- 
tion—Dora's wild,  eldrich  laugh. 

"  A  detective,  my  dear ;  it  has  come  to  that.     The  tele- 
gram has  just  arrived  ;  here  is  my  answer.     Read  it." 
Vera  takes  it,  stupefied. 

"  As  you  have  gone  with  that  woman,  st.y  with  her.     Come  here  no 
more.     I  will  never  hve  with  you  a-ain,  so  help  me  God  !  " 

An  hour  later  Mrs.  Fanshawe  sits  among  her  g.iests 
beautifully  dressed,  painted,  perfumed,  suuling,  radiant  with 
life  and  pleasure.  Her  shrill  laugh  rings  out,  oftener  and 
shriller  than  any  one  ever  has  heard  it  before. 

"What  a  very  dissonant  laugh  Mrs.  Fanshawe's  is  ?  "  one 
sensitive  lady  says,  shrin kingly,  -and  how  wildly  her  eyes 
glisten.     I  hope  she  does  not  use  opium." 

Vera  sits  silent,  pale,  frightened,  distressed.  And  far 
away,  as  strange  a  message,  perhaps,  as  ever  flar^ed  over 
the  wires,  is  speeding  on  its  lightning  course  to  Mr.  Dane 
1*  anshav/e. 


CHAPTER  X. 

HUSBAND   AND   WIFE. 


T  is  the  night  of  the  birthday,  ball,    a  dark,   windy, 
overcast  night,   threatening  rain.     The  Charlton 
mansion  is  ablaze  with  light,  from  attic  to  cellar 
all   IS    bustle,   preparation,    expectation.      Ix,   their   rooms 
the  guests  of  uie  house  are  dressing.     In  hers  sits  the  mis^ 


i  I 


tff'1 


11^ 


m 


111 


i?i 


iili!;; 


326 


HUSBAND  AND    WIFE. 


tress — she  whose  natal  day  all  the  splendor  of  to-night  is  to 
honor. 

Felician  is  busily  and  skilfully  at  work  ;  the  result  is  to 
surpass  every  previous  effort. 

"  Make  me  young  and  pretty  to-night,  Felician,"  her 
mistress  cries,  with  a  gay  laugh,  "  if  you  never  do  it  in  your 
life  again  !  " 

And  Felician  is  doing  her  best.  The  golden  hair  is 
frizzed,  and  puffed,  and  curled,  and  banded  in  a  wonderful 
and  bewildering  manner  to  the  uninitiated.  Not  much  of  all 
that  glittering  chcvclure  dor'ce  grows  on  Dora  Fanshawe's 
head,  but  who  besides  Felician  is  to  know  that  ?  Her 
dress  is  one  of  Worth's  richest  and  rarest — a  dream  of 
azure  silk  and  embroidered  pink  rosebuds,  point  lace  more 
costly  than  rubies,  and  diamonds — such  diamonds  as  will 
not  flash  in  her  rooms  to-night. 

She  wears  brilliants  in  a  profusion  indeed  that  is  almost 
barbaric — they  flash  on  her  fingers  and  arms — woefully  thin 
arms,  that  it  recpiires  all  Felician's  skill  to  dra[)e  so  that 
their  fragility  may  not  show ;  they  sparkle  in  her  ears,  in 
her  hair,  and  run  like  a  river  of  light  round  her  neck. 
But  her  blue  eyes  outshine  them ;  they  are  filled  with  a 
streaming  light,  her  cheeks  are  flushed,  her  dry  lips  are 
fever  red. 

"  Make  me  pretty  to-night,  Felician — make  me  young 
and  pretty  to-night  !  "  is  again  and  again  her  cry,  until 
even  Felician  looks  at  her  in  wonder. 

Perhaps  after  all  the  hint  of  the  lady  last  night  concerning 
opium  is  not  entirely  without  foundation.  She  is  in  a  state 
of  half  delirious  excitement,  she  hardly  feels  the  floor  beneath 
her — she  seems  to  float  on  buoyant  air. 

Life  looks  all  rose-color  and  radiance — pain,  poverty, 
shame,  sorrow,  things  blotted  out  of  the  world.  She  is  in 
the  dawn  of  a  new  life,  she  is  on  the  verge  of  a  complete 
revolution  of  all  that  has  hitherto  made  up  her  existence. 


til 


HUSBAND  AND    WIFE. 


327 


night  is  to 

•esult  is  to 

:ian,"   her 
I  it  in  your 

en  hair  is 

wonderful 

nuch  of  all 

i'anshavve's 

at  ?      Her 

dream  of 

lace  more 

ids  as  will 

it  is  almost 

aefuUy  thin 

le  so  that 

.'r    ears,  in 

her  neck, 
led  with  a 

y  lips  are 

me  young 
cry,    until 

concerning 
in  a  state 
3or  beneath 

n,  ])overty, 
She  is  in 
a  complete 
:  existence. 


No  one  is  old  at  three  and  thirty  ;  Ninon  de  I'Enclos  won 
hearts  at  eighty,  notably  her  own  grandson's  among  them  ; 
and  she  is  still  pretty — where  are  the  crow's  feet,  and  the 
bluish  pallor  of  cheeks  and  lips  to-night  ?  No  one  shall  spoil 
her  pleasure,  no  one  shall  darken  her  life  ;  freed  from  Dane 
Fanshawe,  she  will  begin  anew,  and  eat,  drink,  and  be  merry, 
and  hold  black  care  and  blue  devils  at  bay  forevermore  ! 

The  sound  of  singing  reaches  her,  it  comes  softly  and 
sweetly  from  Vera's  room.  Vera  dresses  always  with  a 
rapidity  little  short  of  miraculous  in  Mrs.  Fanshawe's  eyes. 
It  is  only  on  the  sad  side  of  thirty,  that  women  stand  for 
wistful  hours  before  their  mirrors,  gazing  ruefully  on  what 
they  see.  Dora  has  an  innate,  inborn,  ingrained  passion  for 
dress ;  Vera  forgets  what  she  wears  five  minutes  after  it  is 
on.  Her  sweet,  fresh,  young  voice  comes  from  across  the 
corridor  to  Mrs.  Fanshawe's  ears. 

"  Late,  late,  so  late!    and  dark  the  night  and  chill! 
Late,  late,  so  late!  but  we  can  enter  still. 
Too  late,  too  late!  ye  cannot  enter  now. 

'*  No  light  had  we,  for  tliat  we  do  repent  ; 
And  learning  this  the  bridegroom  will  relent. 
Too  late,  too  late!  ye  cannot  enter  now." 

It  is  the  song  of  the  Foolish  Virgins.  There  is  profound 
pathos  in  the  words  as  Vera  sings  them.  Dora  lifts  her  eyes 
to  a  picture  that  hangs  on  a  wall  opposite,  a  picture  she  has 
brought  from  Florence,  and  that  tells  the  same  mournful 
story  her  sister  sings.  It  is  a  weird,  melancholy  thing  enough, 
but  it  has  struck  Mrs.  Fanshawe's  capricious  fancy.  It  is  a 
night  scene;  the  "  blackness  of  darkaess  "  shrouds  the  sky 
like  a  pall,  and  faintly  through  that  dense  gloom  you  catch 
the  shadowy  outline  of  a  fair  white  mansion — faint  gleams 
of  light  coming  from  its  closed  portals.  Outside  that  closed 
door  the  shadowy  forms  of  women  crouch — the  whole  picture 
indeed  is  shadowy  and  indistinct,  in  distorted  positions  of 


\. 


iTT^ 


328 


HUSBAND  AND    WIFE. 


if 


m 


iii« 


u 


•11* 


I    I 


!i     M 


suffering  and  despair.  Their  unlit  lamps  hang  from  their 
nerveless  hands,  their  faces  are  shrouded  in  their  fallen  hair. 
One  alone  lifts  her  face  to  the  rayless  night-sky,  and  a  glim- 
mer from  the  door  falls  on  and  lights  it.  It  is  a  face  not 
easily  forgotten ;  some  deadly  horror,  some  awful  fear,  loss, 
lo>'e,  laughing — all  are  in  that  white,  uplifted,  tortured  face. 
"And  Tiie  Door  Was  Shut,"  is  the  name  of  the  painting. 
A  singular  and  spectral  sort  of  picture  for  a  lady's  chamber, 
but  it  has  a  fearful  sort  of  a  fascination  for  Dora.  She  knows 
that  solemn,  beautiful  story,  although  she  never  opens  and 
makes  a  scoff  of  the  Book  wherein  it  is  told.  What — she 
thinks  it  now,  a  dread  thrill  shuddering  through  all  her  wild 
exultation  of  feeling — what  if  all  that  liook  tells  be  true, 
what  if  after  this  life  of  purple  and  fine  linen,  and  feasting 
sumptuously  every  day,  another  begins,  that  tremendous 
other  preachers  preach  of — of  darkness  and  torment,  and 
the  eternal  wailing  of  lost  souls  ?  And  if  there  be  that  other, 
what  place  does  it  hold  for  all  those  awful  eternal  years  for 
such  as  she  ? 

*'  No  light ;  so  late  !  and  dark  and  chill  the  night  !  " 

The  sweet  pathetic  voice  comes  across  the  hall  again  : 

*'  O,  let  us  in  that  we  may  find  the  light  ! 
Too  late,  too  late  !     Ye  cannot  enter  now. 

"  Have  we  not  heard  the  bridegroom  is  so  sweet? 
O,  let  us  in,  tho'  late,  to  kiss  'lis  feet  ! 
No,  no,  too  late  !     Ye  cannot  enter  now." 

Dora's  excited  nerves  cannot  bear  it.  She  puts  her  hands 
over  her  ears  with  a  sharp,  sudden  cry. 

"  It  is  horrible  !  I  hate  it  I  Go  to  Miss  Vera's  room, 
Felician,  and  tell  her  to  stop  singing  that  wretched  song,  and 
if  she  is  dressed  to  come  and  talk  to  me  here." 

One  hour  later.     Over  the  road  leading  from  St.  Ann's  to 


V 


rom  their 
lUen  hair, 
id  a  gliiM- 
L  face  not 
fear,  loss, 
.ired  face. 

painting. 

chamber, 
She  knows 
Dpens  and 
^Vhat— she 
1  her  wild 
s  be  true, 
id  feasting 
remendous 
•ment,  and 
that  other, 
,1  years  for 

I" 


again  ; 


HUSBAND  AND    WIFE. 


329 


her  hands 

[ra's  room, 
song,  and 


Ann's  to 


Charlton  Place,  two  men  walk,  one  rapidly,  in  long,  steady 
strides,  the  other  more  slowly,  and  keeping  well  out  of  siglit. 
They  are  not  together — the  lagging  wayfarer  lags  purposely 
to  avoid  the  rapid  walker  before.  It  is  a  lonely  road  on  a 
sunlit  noonday.  It  is  a  desolately  lonely  road  on  a  starless 
night.  The  trees  nearly  meet  overhead,  beneath  is  a  gulf  of 
darkness.  A  tine  drizzling  rain  is  beginning  to  fall,  a  high 
complaining  wind,  with  a  touch  of  November  in  its  quality, 
swirls  through  the  tree-toi)s,  and  whistles  sharply  past  the 
ears  of  the  wayfarers.  The  surf  cannonades  the  shore  in 
dull,  heavy  booms,  and  the  sun-charged  sky  gives  promise  of 
a  wild  fall  storm  before  morning. 

"Bad  for  the  coasters  and  the  fisher  folk,"  the  first  pedes- 
trian says  to  himself,  struggling  with  a  fiercer  blast  than 
before.     "  A  wild  night  at  Shaddeck  Light !  " 

A  wild  night  at  Shaddeck  Light — a  wild  night  everywhere, 
a  wild  night  for  belaced  pedestrians,  a  wild  night  for  Mrs. 
Fanshawe's  guests.  But  in  Mrs.  Fanshawe's  brilliantly-lit 
parlors,  heavy  curtains  shut  out  of  sight  the  blackness,  out 
of  hearing  the  wind.  \  tine  band  of  music,  down  from  the 
city,  drowns  with  resonant  waltz  music  the  beat  of  the  rain 
on  the  glass,  and  the  dash  of  the  surf  on  the  shore.  Mrs. 
Fanshawe,  a  vision  from  dreamland  or  operaland,  in  her 
Paris  dress  and  diamonds,  her  gilded  hair  and  rose-bloom 
cheeks,  receives  her  guests  like  a  queen.  Men  look  at  her, 
stricken  with  sudden  wonder  and  admiration — very  young 
men  particularTy,  whose  way  it  is  invariably  to  fall  in  love 
with  women  a  dozen  years  their  elder.  It  is  so  safe,  too, 
to  flutter  about  this  gorgeous  moth,  who  showers  smiles  on 
all  with  dazzling  im[)artiality.  "  The  greatest  charm  of  a  mar- 
ried woman  is  invariably  her — husband."  Dora  Lightwood, 
(Btat  three-and-thirty,  would  be  a  shari)-boned  husband-hunt- 
er, to  be  feared  and  shunned — Dora  Fansliawe,  married  and 
brilliant,  eclipses  every  young  maiden  present  \yith  her  auda- 
cious beauts  du  diable.     Not  one  fair  virgin  of  them  all — not 


330 


HUSBAND  AND    WIFE. 


\ 


stately,  dark-eyed  Miss  ATaitinez  herself,  will  receive  half  the 
adulation  to-night  that  will  Dane  Fanshawe's  neglected  wife. 

The  foremost  of  the  two  men  reaches  the  open  entrance 
gates,  and  the  strains  of  the  "  Heautiful  Mine  Danube  "  float 
out  and  welcome  him.  A  look  of  annoyance  passes  over 
his  face. 

*' A  party,"  he  mutters;  "have  I  come  in  vain  then  after 
all?  No!"  he  adds,  suddenly,  "let  who  will  be  here,  I 
know  she  will  see  me." 

lie  draws  near  the  house,  bright  with  illumination,  and 
pauses.  The  music  sinks  and  swells,  Hitting  forms  pass 
rapidly.  He  stands  irresolute  a  moment  and  gazes  at  the 
picture.  Around  him  the  darkness,  the  drifting  rain,  the 
surging  trees,  the  long  lamentable  blast,  himself,  a  solitary 
figure — within  there,  floods  of  gas-light,  crashes  of  music,  a 
wilderness  of  flowers,  and  the  "dancers  dancing  in  tune." 
The  contrast  strikes  him  with  a  jarring  sense  of  pain,  he  turns 
impatiently  away,  and  goes  round  to  the  side  of  the  house, 
with  the  air  of  one  who  knows  his  locality  well.  A  door 
stands  slightly  ajar — he  enters  a  hall,  and  a  woman-servant 
passing  through  with  a  tray  of  ices  stops  and  stares. 

"Can  I  see  Harriet  Hart?"  he  asks.  "Is  she  house- 
keeper here  still  ?  " 

"  Miss  Hart  is  housekeeper — yes,  sir,"  answers  the  woman, 
still  staring. 

He  is  a  gentleman  evidently,  also,  evidently  he  is  not  a 
guest. 

"Who  wants  Miss  Hart?"  calls  a  sharp  voice,  and  Har- 
riet herself  appears,  superfine  in  brown  silk,  a  shade  or  two 
lighter  than  her  complexion,  her  little  black  eyes  as  sharp, 
her  flat  figure  flatter,  her  acrid  voice  more  acrid,  if  possible, 
than  of  old. 

The  stranger  takes  off  his  hat  with  a  smile,  and  stands  re- 
vealed.    She  gives  a  little  shriek  and  recoil. 

"  Lord  above  !  "  she  cries,  "  Captain  Dick  I  " 


j  f 


HUSBAND  AND    IVTFE. 


ve  half  the 
ected  wife, 
n  entrance 
lube  "  float 
asses  over 

1  then  after 
be  here,   I 

lation,  and 
forms  pass 
izes  at  the 
g  rain,  the 
,  a  solitary 
of  music,  a 
g  in  tune." 
in,  he  turns 
the  house, 
1.  A  door 
nan-servant 
;s. 
she  house- 

the  woman, 

le  is  not  a 

;,  and  Har- 
ade  or  two 
;s  as  sharp, 
if  possible, 

\  stands  re- 


331 


<( 


'Bad  shillings  always  come  back,  do  they  not,  Miss  Har- 
riet ?     I  see  you  well,  1  hope,  after  all  these  years  ?  " 

She  does  not  reply  ;  she  stands  silently  staring  at  him 
aghast.  ' 

"  I  have  given  you  a  shock,  I  am  afraid.  It  is  I  in  the 
flesh,  r  assure  you,  and  no  apparition.  What  is  gouig  on— 
a  ball  ?  " 

**  A  birthday-ball— missis'  birthday.  Good  Lord  !  Captain 
Dick,  what  a  turn  you  have  given  me  !  Who'd  ever  a  thou'dit 
it?"  *= 

•'  So  it  seems,"  he  says,  half  laughing,  half  impatient.  ''  It 
IS  a  mistake,  I  {\\m\,  taking  people  by  surprise.  We  used  to 
be  tolerable  friends,  I  believe,  bat  you  really  do  not  seem 
over  glad  to  see  me.  Well,  it  is  the  way  of  the  world,  out  of 
sight  out  of  mind." 

"  It  ain't  my  way,  though,"  says  Harriet,  grimly,  and  stretch- 
es out  her  hand. 

Six  years  ago,  if  any  corner  of  Harriet's  vestal  heart  could 
be  said  to  be  bestowed  on  obnoxious  man,  bright,  debonair 
handsome  Dick  Ffrench,  sunny  of  glance,  sunny  of  smile,  gay 
of  voice,  dashing  of  manner,  had  that  corner,  and  no  rival  has 
ousted  him  since. 

"  Welcome  home,  Captain  Dick,  to  the  house  that  ou-ht 
to  call  you  master  instead  o'  them  that  ain't  fit  to  wipe  your 
shoes.  I'm  glad  to  see  ye,  and  there  ain't  many  men  folk 
on  airth  Harriet  Hart  would  say  that  to.  When  did  you 
come  ?  " 

"  To-night  from  New  York.  Harriet,"  abruptly,  "  I  want 
to  see — Miss  Vera." 

He   pauses  before  the  name,  and  flushes   as  he   says  it 
Harriet's  sharp,  beady  black  eyes  seem  to  go  through  his 
rough  overcoat,  straight  to  his  spinal  marrow,  as  she  stands 
and  transfixes  him. 

''  Yes  ?  "  she  says,  shutting  up  her  thin  mouth  like  a  trap 
''Miss  Vera  !— h-m-m  !  Mrs.  Fanshawe,  too?  » 


•■I 


I  p*l 


332 


HUSBAND  AND    WIFE. 


"' 


ii 


I'    ■■  n 


%'Mi 


"No,  Mrs.  Fanshawe  need  not  be  disturbed.  Tell  Miss 
Vera " 

"  Come  this  way,"  cuts  in  Harriet,  and  leads  him  to  her 
own  sitting-room. 

It  is  a  cozy  apartment,  as  befits  a  housekeeper  of  Miss 
Hart's  temper  and  long-standing  at  Charlton.  A  bright  red 
coal  fire  burns  in  the  grate,  a  cat  curls  up  comfortably  before 
it,  a  rocker  sways  by  the  hearth-rug,  china  dogs  and  vases 
are  on  the  mantle,  red  moreen  shuts  out  the  rain-beaten 
night,  and  shuts  in  the  glowing  fire-lit  "interior."  A  flash 
of  recognition  comes  into  her  visitor's  eyes  as  he  enters — a 
flash  half  i)leasure,  half  pain. 

"  It  is  like  old  times  to  be  here,"  he  says,  standing  before 
the  fire. 

•'Ah,  old  times,"  responds  Harriet.  **  I  wish  to  goodness 
gracious  mercy  old  times  would  come  back.  We  had  some 
l)eace  and  comfort  of  our  lives  then.  I'm  old  myself,  and 
new  times  don't  suit  me — lazy  fine  gentlemen  a  loafin'  about, 
and  chuckin'  of  the  chamber-maids  under  their  sassy  chins  ; 
cross  missises  that  an  angel  would  have  to  give  warn  in'  to 
every  other  month ;  eatin'  and  drinkin'  goin'  on  perpetual 
from  nine  in  the  mornin'  to  nine  at  night ;  a  rush  o'  peoi)le 
fiUin'  the  house  and  draggin'  the  help  off  their  feet ;  wimmin 
with  their  clothes  hangin'  off  their  bodies,  only  a  straj)  of  lace 
across  their  nasty  shoulders  to  keep  'em  on  ;  playin'  billiards 
and  crookay,  and  gaddin'  about  with  the  men  folks,  and  they 
makin'  the  whole  place  beastly  with  their  cigars.  Faugh  !  if 
it  wasn't  for  Miss  Vera,  I'd  a  left  long  ago." 

He  lifts  his  head  at  the  sound  of  her  name ;  the  rest  of 
Harriet's  valedictory  has  been  lost. 

"  Miss  Vera,"  he  repeats ;  "  yes,  Harriet,  tell  Miss  Vera  I 
am  here.  Tell  her  I  have  come  from  New  York  on  the  eve 
of  my  departure  for  Cuba  to  see  her,  and  will  detain  her  from 
her  friends  but  a  few  moments." 

He  leans  his  elbow  on  the  low  chimney-piece,  and  seems 


Tell  Miss 

im  to  her 

r  of  Miss 
bright  red 
ibly  before 
and  vases 
•ain-beateii 
•  A  Hash 
enters — a 


ling  before 


o  goodness 
had  some 
nyself,  and 
lafin'  about, 
issy  chins  ; 
warnin'   to 
perpetual 
o'  people 
wimniin 
rap  of  lace 
n'  billiards 
,  and  they 
Faugh  !  if 

he  rest  of 

liss  Vera  I 
on  the  eve 
in  her  from 

and  seems 


IIUSBAXD  AND    WIFE. 


333 


to  relajjsc  into  reverie.  Harriet  gives  him  one  last  kin-n 
glance  as  she  turns  to  go.  \'cra  is  his  wife — at  least  they 
went  to  church  one  day  to  be  married — why  then  does  she 
not  behave  as  such  ?  It  is  part  and  parci'l  of  the  new  state 
of  things  going  on  at  Charlton,  of  the  topsy-turvy  sort  of  life 
these  people  lead,  dining  until  nine,  dancing  until  one,  break- 
fasting  in  bed  near  noon,  married  women  making  eyes  at 
unmarried  men,  a  few  of  the  fastest  and  friskiest  young  mat- 
rons smoking  ! 

Deep  disgust  weighs  down  Harriet's  soul,  speechless  wrath 
flames  upon  them  out  of  her  needle  eyes.  Miss  Vera  is  the 
leaven  that  lightens  the  whole  mass.  She  never  carries  on 
like  a  skittish  young  colt  in  a  paddock,  she  never  makes  a 
fool  of  herself  and  disgraces  her  sex  with  these  slim-waisled, 
cigar-smoking,  mustached  young  dandies,  who  part  their  hair 
down  the  middle,  and  stare  at  her  (Harriet)  as  though  she 
were  some  extinct  species  of  the  dodo.  But  she  is  a  married 
woman,  and  she  does  not  live  with  her  husband,  thus  much 
she  conforms  to  her  world  and  her  order. 

Harriet  goes  to  the  different  doors  and  scrutinizes  the  dan- 
cers. Scorn  inexpressible  sits  on  her  majestic  Roman  nose 
as  she  looks  at  the  waltzers — half-dressed  waists  clasjjed  so 
closely  in  black  broadcloth  arms.  She  is  not  there.  "  For 
which,  oh,  be  joyful  !  "  says  Miss  Hart,  turning  away.  Yon- 
der is  her  missis,  looking  as  if  a  rainbow  and  several  pink 
and  blue  clouds  had  been  cut  up  to  make  her  gown.  "We'd 
a  scorned  to  put  red  and  blue  together  in  my  time,"  she  solil- 
oquizes ;  "we'd  better  taste."  Among  all  the  reeling, 
swaying,  voluptuous-looking  throng  Mrs.  Fanshawe  whirls 
and  wheels,  the  bright,  particular  star  of  the  night,  waltzing 
as  if  her  feet  touched  air. 

Vera  is  not  here.  Harriet  visits  the  music-room,  the  con- 
servatory, and  finds  her  at  last  actually  sitting  out  the  waltz, 
talking  to  a  popular  poet  down  from  New  York,  and  looking 
as  if  she  preferred  it. 


334 


HUSBAND  AND    WIFE. 


'■;i  ' 


**  Miss  Vera,"  in  a  raspinijj  whisper. 

She  turns  from  her  long-haired  poet  with  a  smile. 

♦*  Yes,  Harriet,"  she  says,  in  her  gentle  way. 

"  There's  a  visitor  for  you  ;  he's  in  my  room,  a-waitin'. 
He's  down  from  New  York,  and  wants  to  see  you." 

*' A  visitor,"  Vera  says,  in  surprise,  "for  me?  Not  a 
guest  ?  Who  can  it  be  ?  It  is  not,"  laughing  slightly — '*  it 
is  not  Daddy?" 

"Daddy!"  retorts  Harriet,  with  scorn.  "Well!  it's  the 
next  thing — it's  Daddys  master,  leastways  as  was.  It's  Cap- 
tain Ffrench." 

Vera  rises  to  her  feet.  She  fc^rgets  poet  and  party,  she 
stands  confounded  and  looks  at  the  speaker. 

*'  It  is  Captain  Ffrench — Captain — Dick — Ffrench,"  says 
Harriet,  tersely,  "  and  he's  a-waitin'  in  my  room  a  purpose 
to  see  you.  "  He  wont  keep  you  long;  he  told  me  to  tell 
you  so,  and  he's  goin'  to  Cuba,  he  told  me  to  tell  you  that, 
too." 

She  puts  her  hand  to  her  head.  The  shock  of  suri)rise  is 
great,  but  the  shock  of  sudden,  intense  joy  is  greater.  Colo- 
nel Ffrench  here  !  Her  heart  gives  one  great,  glad  bound, 
and  then  pulses  on,  a  hundred  a  minute.  It  is  with  some- 
thing less  than  the  usual  high-bred  grace  and  ease,  for  which 
Miss  Martinez  is  justly  famous,  that  she  turns  to  her  poet 
and  makes  her  excuses.  Then  without  a  word  to  Harriet 
she  follows  her  to  the  door  of  that  lady's  boudoir.  There 
Miss  Hart  unseals  her  lips. 

"  He's  in  there  a-waitin' ;  you  don't  want  me  to  introduce 
you,  I  reckon,"  she  says,  with  grim  humor,  and  goes. 

Vera  stands  a  moment.  In  that  moment  a  change  comes 
over  her ;  she  is  the  Vera  the  world  knows  again.  The 
shock  is  past ;  there  is  no  need  for  her  to  be  glad  to  see  this 
man.  He  has  mistaken  her  once,  he  shall  not  again.  Dora's 
words  return  to  her ;  whatever  the  business  that  brings  him 
here,  it  is  quite  unnecessary  that  she  should  show  gladness 


a-Nvailin  . 

?     Not   a 
^htly— "  it 

1  !  it's  the 
It's  Cap- 
party,  she 

nch,"  says 
a  purpose 
me  to  tell 

,1  you  that, 

surprise  is 
ter.     Colo- 
ad  bound, 
with  sonie- 
for  which 
her  poet 
o  Harriet 
r.     There 

introduce 
)es. 

inge  comes 
e;ain.     The 

to  see  this 
in.     Dora's 

brings  him 
w  gladness 


HUSBAiVD  AND    WIFE. 


335 


at  his  coming,  or  trouble  him  with  an  etTusive  welcome. 
There  is  not  a  man  dancing  there  in  the  ball-room  who  is 
not  as  nuich  to  her  as  this  man  is  ever  likely  to  be.  She 
takes  herself  well  in  hand,  then  opens  the  door  and  goes 
in. 

He  turns  rjuickly.  Miss  Nfartinez's  taste  in  dress  has  the 
effect  always  of  looking  simple,  and  gives  beholders — male 
beholders — the  idea  of  beauty  unadorned.  In  reality,  her 
wardrobe  rivals  in  expense  Dora's  own.  She  wears  white 
to-night — creamy  white  silk,  with  ornaments  of  dull  yellow 
gold,  some  touches  of  rich  old  lace,  and  a  crimson  rose  in 
her  hair.  Her  splendid  eyes  light  like  brown  stars  the  dusk 
pallor  of  her  Spanish  face.  That  pallor  is  deeper  than  usual, 
the  laces  rise  and  fall  with  the  rebellious  beatings  of  the  heart 
beneath  them,  but  he  does  not  distinguish  the  pallor,  does 
not  hear  the  heart-beats,  so  no  harm  is  done. 

"This  is  a  very  unexpected  pleasure,"  she  says,  smilingly, 
and  with  the  instinct  of  hos[)itaIity  holds  out  her  hand. 
"  Let  me  welcome  you  back  to  Charlton,  Colonel  Ffrench." 

He  holds  for  a  second  the  slender  unresponsive  hand,  then 
drops  it,  and  places  a  chair  for  her. 

♦'  Will  you  not  sit,  too  ?  "  she  asks. 

"  No,"  he  answers,  and  resumes  his  place  by  the  chimney 
and  his  former  position.  She  has  not  said  much,  but  some- 
thing in  her  tone,  in  her  eyes,  chills  him,  as  the  cold  night 
wind  sighing  about  the  gables  could  never  do.  In  her 
beauty  and  her  pride,  her  rich  dress,  the  gleam  of  yellow 
gold,  as  she  sits  in  the  ruby  shine  of  the  fire,  she  seems  so 
far  off,  so  high  above  him,  that  he  turns  his  eyes  away  with 
a  feeling  akin  to  despair. 

He  realizes,  as  he  has  never  realized  before,  that  the  Vera 
of  six  years  ago  is  as  utterly  gone  out  of  this  world  as  though 
the  daisies  grew  over  her  grave.  This  beautiful,  reticent, 
graceful,  chill-voiced,  fine  lady,  is  no  more  his  black-eyed, 
laughing,  romping,  loving,  madcap  Vera  t'^n 


336 


HUSBAND  AND    WIFE. 


\ 


i             \   :;i 

1         • 

it 

^                11 

1     ' 

1        ; 

1:1  i 

V'k 


The  brown  eyes  flash  up  their  golden  light  suddenly  upon 
him. 

"When  did  you  come?"  she  asks — "from  England,  I 
mean  ?  " 

"  Three  days  ago." 

"  I  trust  you  left  all  our  mutual  friends  very  well  ?  " 

He  turns  his  eyes,  fixed  moodily  on  the  fire,  with  a  swift, 
passionate  glance  to  her  face. 

"  I  saw  Sir  Beltran  Talbot  before  I  left ! "  he  says, 
abruptly. 

"  Yes  ?  "  Her  voice  does  not  change,  but  a  faint  color 
rises,  and  the  hand  that  holds  her  fan  is  not  quite  steady. 

"  And  I  know  that  you  refused  him.     Vera,  why  ?  " 

She  meets  his  glance  steadily — slow,  intense  f,urprise  and 
anger  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  decline  to  answer  that  question.  I  deny  your  right  to 
ask  it." 

"  I  claim  no  right,"  he  says,  steadily.  *'  It  should  be 
ample  enough.  Heaven  knows  ;  but  a  right  enforced — in  this 
case — would  hardly  be  worth  the  claiming.  Vera,  I  wonder 
if  any  other  human  being  ever  changed  so  utterly  in  six 
years  as  you  have  done  !  There  is  not  a  trace,  not  a  tone, 
not  a  look,  of  the  little  Vera  of  that  past  summer  left." 

A  smile  breaks  the  proud,  set  gravity  of  her  face — a  smile 
of  triumph. 

"  You  preferred  that  other  Vera  ?"  she  says. 

He  looks  at  her  again,  and  the  story  his  eyes  tell,  is  the 
story  told  since  the  world  began — to  be  told  till  the  world 
ends. 

"  T  liked  that  other  Vera,"  he  answers ;   "  1  love  this  !  " 

She  is  lying  back  in  the  chair  ;  now  she  sits  suddenly 
erect.  The  words  give  her  an  absolute  shock.  She  believes 
Dora's  fiction  ;  she  believes  implicitly  in  that  "  some  one  " 
in  Cuba  ;  she  has  never  dreamed  herself  other  than  a  drag 
on  his  life,  not  easily  gotten  rid  of,  and  now,  to  hear  this  ! 


i\ 


Idenly  upon 
England,  I 


ell?" 

fv'ith  a  Kwift, 

"   he   says, 

L  faint  color 
J  steady, 
hy  ?  " 
-urprise  and 

our  right  to 

:  should  be 
ced — in  this 
a,  I  wonder 
terly  in  six 
not  a  tone, 
•  left." 
ce — a  smile 


;  tell,  is  the 
1  the  world 

^'e  this  !  " 
ts  suddenly 
)he  believes 
5onie  one  " 
han  a  drag 
ear  this  ! 


:i  USB  AND  AND    IVIFE.  yj 

vJa ;:"  :t::  Eo'^  t::-,  "  '^^,  "-^^^^  -^  ■"-  ""■^- 

1^31 "  ^''''^  '""■  "'"''^y*  a''  '  saw  her 

He  stops  abruptly  at  a  gesture  fro.n  her 

"As  you  saw  me  last,"  she  repeats  slowly.    "Yes  neither 
of  us  ,s  hkely  ever  to  forget  //,„/  "  ' 

turn?r  1°^  ""  "'''  '"'"'  "''  °'''  '"""'■'i="ion  of  that  day  re- 
ur  s  to  her  now  aeross  the  years.      Again  she  is  croucin'n. 

ankw '"',"""??'"'  '"  ^^«*''"S  "--»  crushed  amid  th^ 
rank  weeds  and  da.np  grasses,  listeuing  ,o  the  strident  voiee 
that  denounces  her  as  a  bold  creat„re:i„st  to  all  n,o     s^v  or 
.na,denly  pr.de.     A  flush  passes  over  her  face,  a  ligh  coL 
."to  her  angry  eyes,  her  fluttering  hands  grow  stea  ly      e 
swtft  heart-beats  cease.     So„,e  perverse  spirit   enteral  to 
he  ■  that  s,  T  ^^l^nowledges  to  this  man,  forced  to  marry 
toTht'saa'"^^^  """'   ''^"^^^  ''—  ^^  ^^-Charl- 
"  I  saw  always  the  little  Vera  I  had  left,"  he  goes  on- 
'  my  dear,  httle,  bright-eyed  chil.l-bride ;  I  came  back  and 
found  her  a  woman,  more  beautiful  than  I  had  ever  thoult 
T  ""h1  ^'^''T'"  """'  ^"^  f™™  'h^  fi-t  hour  I  k  ovh 

stood  bt"-  T  '"  '^''  '°'-^°"™  '-'  -"P'  -  one^!;: 
Stood  be  ween  her  and  happiness,  I  was  told,  and  did  not 
doubt      It  seetned  natural  enough.     But  I  begin  ,o  doubt 

fal  elood  .      You   reft.sed   Sir  Beltrau    Talbot-you   could 
not  do  o  herw,se,  of  course,  but  it  is  the  knowledge  of  t„ 
refusal  that  has  sent  me  here       Vera    F  !,,„„    .■„! 
world  will  f.n  ,.  °''^'  '  have    little— your 

world    v,l:  tell  you  nothing,  to  offer-but   my  love    dee,, 
change  ess,  true    r  ,rii/»  it,  ■         .  '         ' ' 

6       »,   iiue,    1   give  !     Is  our   marriage     ndeed  to  1.,. 

tahtrr  "ir  ""'""""^^  ^"^"  ^™ "-- »« ">  >v 

in  reality,  as  well  as  in  name  ?  " 

hea"t'irfnn'  ?',f"'?  ""  ''^"^  '■^"■'*'     ''  '-^  "<"  -hen  the 

L;  d  ^r     '''  '■"■'  ""'^'    '-■'"•l"^"-     -'-he    proudly 

hai,ds.n,e  face  before  him  does  not  soften  one  whit,     for 


n 

m 

1 

hMK 

W 

t  1 

! 


'%: 


•!■  i'. 


'I      i 

..  1 


HUSBAXD   AND    WIFE. 


the  first  time  she  doubts  Richard  Ffrei.ch's  word.     She  is  in 
a  false  position — is  it  to  ^ave  her  from  it  he  speaks  now  ? 

"  I  know  of  old,"  she  answers,  "  how  romantic  and  chiv- 
alrous is  Colonel  Ffrench's  sen-e  of  duty.  It  led  him  once 
to  niarry  a  foolish,  jlighty  school-girl,  when  he  would  have 
done  nuich  better  to  have  rated  her  soundly  for  her  folly  in 
running  after  him,  and  gone  and  left  her.  If  I  had  loved 
Sir  iJeltran  Talbot,  perhaps  not  even  the  fact  of  that  non- 
sensical marriage  would  have  been  strong  enough  to  prevent 
my  telling  him  so,  at  least.  I  am  not  a  very  i)erfect  person  ; 
no  one  knows  that  better  than  I.  liut  my  marriage  had 
nothing  to  do  with  my  refusal — understand  that.  As  to  the 
sacrifice  you  i)iopose  to  make,  in  accepting  the  wife  thrust 
upon  you  six  years  ago,  while  deeply  grateful,  I  yet  decline. 
Afy  life  suits  me  very  well.  I  am  not  a  blighted  being.  I 
can  dispense  with  lovers  in  the  present,  and  a  husbard  in 
the  future,  extraordinary  as  it  may  seem.  Your  friend  1 
shall  always  be.  Colonel  Ffrench  ;  your  wife,  other  than  I 
am  now — never  !  " 

Her  pride  is  strong  within  her,  it  rings  in  her  voice,  it 
Hashes  in  her  eyes.  Surely  she  has  vindicated  herself  at 
last. 

For  a  moment  he  does  not  speak.  In  that  pause  a  great 
burst  of  music  comes  from  the  ball-room,  the  first  bars  of  a 
grand  triumphal  march.     He  speaks  first. 

''  You  mean  this  .?  "  he  slowly  says. 

"  1  mean  this,"  she  answers,  and  meets  his  eyes  full. 

"  Then  there  is  no  more  to  be  said.  Pardon  me  for  hav- 
ing said  so  much,  for  having  taken  you  from  your  friends. 
Good-niglit,  and  good-by." 

An  impulse  is  upon  her,  thoroughly  contradictory,  and 
thoroughly  womanly,  to  call  him  back,  to  claim  him,  keep 
him,  love  him.  Vera  is  a  very  woman,  and  consistently  in- 
consistent. A  fiush  sweeps  over  her  face,  to  the  very  tem- 
ples. 


II  iint'-'iriiii 


^    CRY  AV    THE   NIGHT. 


She  is  in 

now  ? 
and  chiv- 

him  once 
3ukl  have 
er  folly  in 
had  loved 

that  non- 
:o  [)rcvcnt 
:t  person  ; 
•riage  had 
As  to  the 
vife  thrust 
.'t  decline, 
being.  [ 
lusband  in 
r  friend  I 
er  than  I 

r  voice,  it 
herself  at 

:se  a  great 
bars  of  a 


'Oh,  come  back  !  do  not  go  !  "  is  on  her  lips,  but  h.-r  lips 
refuse  to  speak.  She  stands  so  a  mo.nent,  battling  with  her 
pride,  and  ni  that  nionieut  he  goes.  The  door  clones  behind 
linn  ;  the  sweep  of  the  triumphal  march  speeds  him  ;  he  is 
gone  wuhout  even  the  poor  return  of  an  answer  to  his  .^ood- 
night.      Pride  has  fought  and  v.'on.  "^ 

A  wise  general  has  said,  that  next  to  a  great  defeat  a  great 
victory  ,s  the  most  cruel  of  all  things.  Perhaps  Vera  real- 
ises this  now.  She  sits  where  he  has  left  her,  feeling  faint 
and  sick,  her  face  hidden  in  her  hands. 

The  crashing  tide  of  the  music  comes  down  to  her  •  the 
feet  of  the  dancers  echo  overhead.  She  must  go  bock  to 
theni,  make  one  of  them,  wear  a  smiling  face  to  the  end. 
SI  ^  oves  Richard  Ffrench,  and  she  has  sent  him  awav  •  in 
the  last  half  hour  she  has  done  what  she  will  re-ret  her 
whole  life  long.  '^ 

_  Meantime  the  unbidden  guest  is  gone.  Once  more  he  is 
in  the  outer  darkness,  in  the  night  and  the  storm.  Tiie  mel- 
ancholy rain  still  drips,  drips ;  the  melancholy  wind  blows  in 
long,  sighing  blasts  ;  the  black  trees  toss  about  like  tall 
specters  against  the  blacker  sky.  Aud  a  figure  sheltered 
beneath  thein-the  lagging  pedestrian  of  an  hour  before- 
watches  him  with  sinister  eyes  until  he  is  out  of  sight 


I 


full. 

le  for  hav- 

ur  friends. 

:tory,  and 
him,  keep 
stently  in- 
very  tern- 


CHAPTER  XI. 

A    CRY    IN    THE    NIGHT. 

RS.  FANSHAWE'S  ball  is  what  Mrs.  Fanshawe 
has  meant  it  to  be— a  brilliant  success.  Her  own 
_  spirits  never  flag  ;  she  dances  incessantly,  the  red 
oi  her  cheeks  redder,  .e  light  of  her  eyes  brighter,  as  the 
hours  wear  on.     Who  shall  say  that  this  radiant  httle  hostess 

■',' 


nF! 


340 


A    C/^Y  IN   THE   NIGHT. 


\k 


V  1 


dcncing  like  a  Bacchante,  wild  with  high  spirits,  flirting  with 
the  men  about  her  with  desperate  recklessness  and  levity,  is 
a  neglected,  slighted,  supplanted,  unloved  wife  ?  At  sup|)er 
she  drinks  iced  ghanipage  as  if  parched  with  fever-thirst, 
until  Vera's  brows  contract  with  wonder  and  alarm.  She 
keeps  near  her  sister  through  it  all  ;  something  in  Dora's 
wild  excitement  startles  her ;  she  dances  scarcely  once  after 
her  return  to  the  ball-room. 

"Where  have  you  been?"  Dora  asks,  hitting  her  a  per- 
fumed blow  with  her  fan.  "  Why  do  you  wear  that  owl-like 
face  ?  This  is  no  place  for  owlish  faces.  Why  do  you  not 
dance  ?  Everybody  has  been  asking  for  you.  What  is  the 
matter  with  you  to-night,  my  solemn  Vera?" 

Her  elfish  laugh  rings  out — she  flits  on.  A  gentleman 
p.issing  smiles  to  the  lady  on  his  arm. 

"A  case  of  twinkle,  twinkle,  little  star!"  he  remarks. 
"  What  a  radiantly  happy  woman  our  charming  hostess 
must  be  !  " 

The  lady  shrugs  her  shoulders,  and  puts  out  a  scornful 
little  chin. 

"  She  is  half  crazy  to-night,  or — tipsy  with  her  own  cham- 
pagne !  Did  you  not  see  how  she  drank  at  supper  ?  It 
was  perfectly  shocking.  See  her  sister  watching  her. 
Beautiful  girl,  Miss  Martinez — do  you  not  think? — a  perfect 
type  of  the  handsomest  sort  of  brunette." 

The  gentleman  smiles  slightly,  knowing  better  than  to  ac- 
cept this  artful  challenge ;  but  the  eyes  that  rest  for  a  mo- 
ment on  Vera  have  in  them  a  light  that  makes  his  fair  friend 
bite  her  lip. 

"  Some  romance  attaches  to  her — it  does  not  seem  quite 
clear  what — but  something  connected  with  Dick  PYrench. 
You  remember  Captain  Dick,  of  course.  I  have  heard,  but 
that  I  do  not  believe,  that  she  was  privately  married  to  him 
before  he  went  away." 

"Fortunate  Dick  Ffrench  !  " 


ting  with 
levity,  is 
it  supper 
/er-thirst, 
•m.  She 
in  Dora's 
nee  after 

ler  a  per- 
t  owl-like 
D  you  not 
bat  is  the 

entleman 

remarks. 
y   hostess 

L  scornful 

\vn  cham- 
jper  ?  It 
ling  her. 
-a  perfect 


mmmmmmmm 


lan  to  ac- 
for  a  mo- 
fair  friend 

sem  quite 

Ffrench. 

leard,  but 

ed  to  him 


A    CRY  IN   THE  NIGHT. 


341 


"  Oh,  it  is  a  myth  of  course — they  say  being  the  only 
authority.  It  is  added  that  she  was  very  desi)erately  in  love 
with  him,  but  that  statement  also  is  fo  be  taken  witii  a  pinch 
of  salt.  She  was  little  better  than  a  child  at  the  time— I 
recollect  her  well  ;  a  tall,  slim  girl,  with  a  thin,  dark  face,  big 
black  eyes,  and  hardly  a  trace  of  the  stately  beauty  we  all 
admire  now.  Look  at  Mrs.  Fanshawe  with  Fred  Howell  1 
Really,  Mr.  Fanshawe  should  be  here  to  keep  his  wife  in 
order.  No  one  advocates  matrimonial  freedom  more  than 
I  do,  but  there  is  a  line,  and  she  oversteps  it.  Upon  my 
word  she  is  quite  too  horrid." 

Such  comments,  from  ladies  principally,  run  the  round  of  the 
rooms.  The  gentlemen,  more  indulgent,  only  glance  at  each 
other,  and  smile.  All  recall  afterward,  when  the  trau^edv  of 
this  night  rings  through  the  country  with  a  thrill,  her  brilliance, 
her  flashes  of  wit,  her  reckless  spirits,  her  incessant  dancing, 
her  flushed  cheeks,  her  streaming  eyes,  her  flashing  dia- 
monds. Censorious  tongues  stop  then  appalled,  fair  censors 
falter— they  recall  her  only  as  a  bright  little  butterfly,  look- 
ing hardly  accountable  for  her  acts,  so  fair,  so  frail,  so  almost 
unearthly.  But  just  now,  before  the  curtain  falls  on  that 
last  act,  and  the  intoxication  of  music,  and  waltzing,  and 
wine  is  at  its  height,  they  do  not  spare  her.  One  or  two 
words  fall  on  Vera's  ears,  and  her  eyes  flash  out  their  indig- 
nation on  the  speakers.  They  are  ner  guests,  they  break 
her  bread  and  eat  her  salt,  and  sit  in  judgment  on  her.  Eut 
oh  I  what  ails  Dot  ?  How  rash  she  is — she  has  never  gone 
to  such  extremes  before.  It  is  more  of  Dane  Fanshawe's 
work  ;  he  has  goaded  her  to  madness  ;  this  is  her  reckless 
revenge. 

Perhaps  it  is  as  well  for  Vera's  peace  of  mind  that  no 
time  is  left  her  to  think  of  herself  or  her  own  wayward  folly. 
She  has  acted  like  a  fool  in  one  way — Dora  is  acting  like  a 
fool  in  another  ;  there  is  little  to  choose  between  them,  that 
she  admits  bitterly.     She  keeps  as  close  to  Dora  as  may  be  ; 


342 


A    CRY  IN   THE   NIGHT. 


jii 


she  tries  to  restrain  her  unj 'erceived  ;  i-he  resolutely  refuses 
to  (Umee. 

"  I'or  pity's  sake,  Dot,  do  not  go  on  so — everyone  is  look- 
ing at  you,"  siie  wiiispers,  angrily,  once.  '"You  are  insane, 
1  think,  to-night.  Do  not  dance  with  I'red  Mowell  again. 
He  ought  to  be  asiiamed  of  himself "' 

But  Dora  interrui)ts  with  one  of  her  frequent  bursts  of 
laughter. 

"  Oh,  Fred,  listen  here  !  "  she  calls  ;  "  here  is  richness  ! 
Look  at  Vera's  owlisli  face  ;  listen  to  her  words  of  wisdom. 
'  Do  not  dance  witli  Fred  Mowell  again.  He  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  iiimself  !  '  Are  you  ashamed,  Fred  ?  You  ought 
to  be,  if  my  sol)er  sister  says  so — she  is  never  wrong." 

Mr.  Howell  stoops  and  whispers  his  answer.  He  glances 
at  W-ra  with  a  malicious  smile,  he  owes  her  a  grudge  for 
more  than  one  cut  direct,  and  he  cordially  hates  sui)er- 
ciUous  Dane  Fanshawe.  He  is  paying  a  double  debt  to 
night,  in  comi)romising  his  hates.  Vera  draws  back,  indig- 
nant and  disgusted,  and  sees  them  go,  Dora  clinging  to  his 
arm.  l'"red  Howell's  tall,  dark  head  bent  over  her  blonde 
one  -  the  most  i)ronounced  flirtation  possible. 

JUit  it  ends  at  last.  Mrs.  Fanshawe,  foolish  though  she  be 
in  many  things,  is  wise  enough  never  to  let  daxlight  sur- 
prise her  well-bred  orgies,  and  stare  in  on  haggard  faces  and 
leaden  eyes.  A  little  after  three  the  guests  begin  to  depart, 
at  half  [)ast  the  roll  of  carriages  is  continual,  at  four  all  but 
the  guests  are  gone.  And  when  the  last  good-night  is  said, 
Dora  Fanshawe  drops  into  a  chair,  and  lifts  a  face  to  her 
sister,  a  fnce  so  drawn,  so  worn,  so  miserable,  that  all  her 
sins  and  follies  are  forgotten.  As  by  the  touch  of  a  magic 
wand,  every  trace  of  youth  and  prettiness  departs  in  a 
second. 

"  I  am  tired  to  death  !  "  she  says.  "  1  am  tired  to  death  !  " 
She  draws  a  long,  hard  breath,  and  Hings  up  her  arms  over 
her  head.     "  1  am  tired  to  death — tired — tired — tired  !  " 


J.,    v^-jif. 


y  refuses 


L'  is  look' 
,'  insane, 
11  again. 


.Hirsts  of 

ichness  ! 

wisdom. 

It  to  be 


HI  ought 


r 

:  glances 
Lidge  for 
i  sui)er- 
debt  to 
k,  indig- 
g  to  his 
■   blonde 


ii  she  be 
ight  sur- 
ices  and 
)  depart, 

all  but 
:  is  said, 
i   to  her 

all  her 
a  magic 
rts  in  a 

death  !  " 
ms  over 
;d!" 


■—I 


A    CA'V  AV    77//;-    NIGHT. 


343 


Tiiere  is  weariness  unspeakable  in  the  gesture,  htjarl-sick- 
ness  so  utter,  so  desperate,  tliat  Vera's  anger  melts  like 
snow.  She  has  meant  to  scold  I  )ora  for  her  madness,  but  all 
words  of  leproach  die  awa}-  in  a  passion  of  pity  and  love. 

"My  poor  little  dear!"  she  says.  Asa  mother  might, 
she  gathers  the  llower-decked,  jewel-crowned  head  to  her 
breast.  "  Ob  !  my  Dot,  you  have  not  been  yourself  to- 
night. I  have  been  frightened  for  you.  I  am  so  glad  it  is 
all  over,  and  that  you  can  rest.  No  wonder  you  are  tired— 
you  have  danced  every  dance.  Let  me  take  you  to  your 
room,  and  help  you  to  bed." 

Without  a  word  Dora  rises,  and  trails  her  rich  ball-robe 
slowly  and  wearily  u])  the  stairs  to  her  own  room.  Here 
she  sinks  in  a  powerless  sort  of  way  again  into  the  first  chair. 

"1  am  dead  tired,"  she  repeats,  mechanically.  "  If  I  only 
could  sleep  and  not  wake  for  the  next  forty-eight  hours, 
I  might  be  rested  by  the  end  of  that  time.  Nothing  less  will 
do." 

She  lifts  her  heavy  and  dim  eyes,  and  they  fall  on  the 
dreary  picture  of  the  ''  Foolish  Virgins."  There  they  remain 
in  sombre  silence  for  a  long  time.  Vera  sends  aw.u-  l\Mi- 
cian  and  disrobes  Dora  herself  with  swift,  deft  Tn  .;.m'-,,  with 
soft,  soothing  touches. 

"Do  you  know,"  Dora  says,  at  length,  "  that  through  it 
all— the  crash  of  the  band,  and  the  whirl  of  the  German, 
and  the  talk  of  those  men— the  face  of  that  woman  there 
has  haunted  me  like  a  ghost  ?  I  can  understand  now  how 
men  take  to  drink  to  drown  memory  or  remorse.  All  these 
long  hours  it  has  been  beside  me.  Sometimes  when  I  looked 
in  Fred  Howell's  face— faugh  !  what  a  fool  he  is  !— it  was 
the  deadly  white  face  of  that  crouching  woman  1  saw.  And 
the  words  went  with  the  vision— <  Too  late,  too  late  !  ye 
cannot  enter  now  I'  They  have  been  ringing  in  my  ears 
like  a  death-knell." 

*'  You  are  morbid  ;  your  nerves  are  all  unstrung,"  is  Vera's 


344 


A    CRY  IN   THE  NIGHT. 


ii 


% 


,1  ■•( 
111 


\\ 


. 


I 


:i 


"A 


%■  \  II 


1, 


i^''j 

*■  i 

JU 

l-^'l 

answer.  "  I  wish  I  had  not  sung  it.  It  is  a  weird  picture — 
gloomy  enough  to  haunt  any  one.  Do  not  look  at  it  any 
more.  Shut  your  poor  tired  eyes  while  I  brush  out  your 
hair  ;  it  will  quiet  you." 

But  the  sombre  blue  eyes  never  leave  the  picture,  and, 
when  she  speaks  again,  her  question  startles  her  sister,  so 
that  she  nearly  drops  the  brush. 

*'  Vera,"  she  says,  "  are  you  afraid  to  die  ?  " 

"Dot!" 

"Afraid  of  the  awful  loneliness,  the  awful  darkness,  the 
awful  Unknown.  Vera,  Vera  1  /am.  I  am  afraid  to  grow 
old  ;  but  I  hope — J  hoi)e — I  hope  I  may  be  seventy,  eighty, 
ninety,  before  I  die  !  I  am  afraid  of  death — horribly  afraid  ! 
If  one  could  come  back  from  the  dead  and  tell  us  what  it  is 
like — where  all  this  that  aches  so  in  life,  heart,  soul,  con- 
science, whatever  you  call  it,  goes  after  that  ghastly  change. 
But  they  never  do,  and  we  go  on  blindly,  and  then  all  at 
once  the  world  slips  from  under  us,  and  we  are — where  1  Or 
is  it  the  end,  and  are  we  blankness  and  nothingness,  as  be- 
fore we  were  born  ?  That  would  be  best.  I  do  not  think  I 
would  fear  that — much  !  " 

Vera  kneels  down  beside  her,  and  puts  her  arm  around 
her,  every  trace  of  color  leaving  her  face,  her  eyes  dark  and 
dilated  with  sudden  terror. 

"  Dora,"  she  says,  "  Dora,  what  is  this  ?  Are  you  in  pain  ? 
Does  your  heart  hurt  you  ?     Is  it  the  spasms  again  ?  " 

•'Oh,  no!"  Dora  answers,  wearily,  "nothing  of  that. 
I  feel  well  enough ;  I  never  felt  so  well  or  happy  in  my  life 
as  I  did  to-night.  I  am  dead  tired  now,  that  is  all.  And 
that  picture  troubles  me  like  a  bad  dream.  And  your  song 
— I  cannot  get  that  despairing  refrain  out  of  my  ears.  I 
wish  I  were  a  better  woman,  Vera,  I  wish  I  were  as  good, 
as  wise  as  you " 

"  As  I  ?  "  Vera  interrupts,  almost  with  a  cry  "  Oh,  Dot 
Dot,  as  I  !  " 


*. 


A    CRY  IN   THE  NIGHT. 


345 


icture — 
,t  it  any 
3Ut  your 

ire,  and, 
iister,  so 


less,  the 
to  grow 
',  eighty, 
y  afraid  ! 
vhat  it  is 
oul,  con- 
'  change, 
in  all  at 
V  r  1  Or 
ss,  as  be- 
t  think  I 

around 
dark  and 

in  pain  ? 

of  that. 

n  my  life 

And 

our  song 

ears.     I 

as  good, 

Oh,  Dot 


"  Yon  never  carry  on  with  men  as  the  rest  of  us  ilo. 
They  have  to  respect  you.  You  would  not  make  a  fool  of 
yourself  with  Fred  Howell  as  I  did,  come  what  might.  You 
go  to  church  every  Sunday,  rain  or  shine.  You  have  pious 
little  books,  and  you  read  them,  and  you  believe  in  Ooil  and 
heaven,  and  all  good  things.  Vera,"  she  breaks  out,  and  it 
is  a  very  cry  of  passionate  pain,  of  a  soul  in  utter  darkness, 
"  is  there  a  God,  and  must  I  answer  to  Him  for  the  life  1 
lead  ;  and  when  I  die  will  He  send  me  forever  to " 

But  Vera's  hand  is  over  her  mouth.  Dora  is  certainly 
mad  to-night — her  husband's  cruelty  has  turned  her  brain  ! 

"Hush!  hush!  hush!"  she  exclaims,  in  horror.  "Oh, 
my  Dot  !  my  Dot  !  " 

What  shall  she  say  to  this  blind,  groping  soul,  lost  in  the 
chaos  of  unbelief?  What  shs  does  say  is  in  a  broken  voice, 
full  of  pity  and  pathos  ;  Dora  is  too  worn  out  to  listen  to 
much.  But  she  speaks  of  the  infinite  goodness  and  love  of 
Him  whose  tender  mercies  are  over  all  His  works. 

"If  you  would  but  pray,"  she  says,  imploringly,  "it  is  all, 
it  is  everything,  the  '  key  of  the  day  and  the  lock  of  the 
night.'  Only  this  morning  I  was  reading  a  book  of  Eastern 
travels,  and  the  writer  says  a  beautiful  thing.  He  is  si)eak- 
ing  of  the  camels  so  heavily  laden  all  the  weary  day,  who 
kneel  at  its  close  to  be  unstrapped  and  unladen.  And  he 
says,  we,  like  the  camels,  kneel  down  at  night,  and  our  bur- 
dens are  lifted  from  us.  If  you  would  but  kneel.  Dot,  and 
believe  and  pray,  our  loving  Father,  wlio  hears  the  cry  of 
every  hopeless  heart  before  it  is  spoken,  would  help  you  to 
bear  it  all." 

Dora  does  not  answer — she  lies  back  with  closed  eyes, 
white,  spent,  mute.  Vera  rises  and  resumes  her  work  ;  in  a 
few  minutes  an  embroidered  night-dress  has  replaced  the 
rainbow  costume  and  jewels,  and  Mrs.  Fanshawe  lies  down 
on  her  white  bed  with  a  long,  tired  sigh. 

"It  is  good  to  rest,"  she  says  ;  "I  hope  I  may  sleep  until 
«5* 


k 


VP 


346 


//    C/v'K  IN    THE  NIGHT. 


if 


1 


If 


ini    I 


^11  '. 


i 


■  fci 

P. 


>  • 


i    H 


II 


sunset  tomorrow.  See  that  I  am  not  disturbed,  will  you  ? 
1  want  to  sleep— to  sleep — to  sleep." 

'I'lie  words  trail  off  heavily — the  last  these  pale  lips  will 
ever  utter — and  then,  with  closed  eyes,  she  lies  ([uite  still 
among  the  pillows.  Vera  hastily  replaces  the  jewels  in  their 
caskets,  and  arranges  them  on  the  table  near  the  bed,  llings 
the  ball  costume  over  a  chair,  turns  down  the  gas  to  a  tiny 
point,  kisses  her  sister  gently,  locks  ihe  door  on  the  inside, 
and  leaves  the  bedroom.  She  goes  by  way  of  the  dressing- 
room  adjoining,  the  door  of  which  she  also  locks,  and  takes 
the  key.  l-'elician  may  enter  in  the  morning,  according  to 
custom,  with  her  lady's  matutinal  chocolate,  and  Dora's  sleep 
must  not  be  disturbed. 

In  her  own  room,  she  throws  open  the  window,  folds  a 
wrap  about  her,  and  sits  down,  glad  to  be  alone.  She  feels 
no  desire  for  sleep  ;  her  mind  is  abnormally  wakeful  and 
active.  Mow  dark  it  is  !  and  how  heavily  it  rains  !  The 
scent  of  wet  grasses  and  dripping  trees  ascends  ;  there  is 
not  a  ray  of  light  in  the  black  sky  ;  the  whole  world  seems 
blotted  out  in  darkness  and  wet,  and  she  the  only  living 
thing  left. 

Is  Dora  asleep,  she  wonders — poor,  poor  Dora  !  Thank 
Heaven,  it  is  not  yet  too  late  !  thank  Heaven,  there  is  yet 
time  for  faith  and  repentance,  and  the  beginning  of  a  better, 
less  worldly  life  !  It  has  been  a  great  and  silent  trouble  to  Vera 
during  the  past  six  years,  the  cynical,  scoffing  unbelief  of  her 
sister,  so  hateful  in  a  man,  so  utterly  revolting  in  a  woman. 
But  it  is  not  too  late,  it  is  never  too  late  for  penitence  and 
amendment  this  side  of  eternity.  Then  her  thoughts  shift, 
the  face  of  Richard  Ffrench  rises  before  her  in  the  gloom,  so 
full  of  silent,  sad  reproach.  She  loves  him,  and  she  has  sent 
him  from  her — oh,  folly  beyond  belief !  and  yet  so  thorough- 
ly the  folly  of  a  woman.  "  I  liked  that  Vera — 1  love  this  !  " 
— the  bound  her  heart  gives  as  she  recalls  the  words  !  They 
are  true,  or  he  would  not  speak  them.     No  sense  of  loyalty 


.4    CA']-  IX    Tin:    NICIIT. 


347 


ill  you  ? 

lips  will 
lite  still 
\  in  their 
;(1,  niii.i;s 
o  a  tiny 
t  inside, 
Jressing- 
ul  takes 
rcling  to 
a's  sleep 

',  folds  a 
5he  feels 
etid  and 
s  !  The 
there  is 
Id  seems 
ily  living 

Thank 
e  is  yet 
a  better, 
e  to  Vera 
ef  of  her 
woman, 
nee  and 
hts  shift, 
rloom,  so 
has  sent 
horough- 
l/e  this  !  " 
They 
)f  loyalty 


to  her  would  make  him  tell  her  a  thing  that  is  false.  lie 
is  true  as  trutli,  true  as  steel,  good,  brave,  a  noble  man.  And 
she  has  sent  him  away! — the  thought  stings  her  with  keenest 
l)ain  and  regret.  Oh,  this  pride  that  exacts  such  a  price! 
Is  it  too  late  to  retract  ?  He  is  going  back  to  Cuba,  to  his 
death  it  may  be  ;  no  mm  can  carr}-  a  chaiined  life  forever, 
and  he  will  never  know  she  loves  him.  No  !  a  sudden,  glad 
resolution  fills  her,  f(^r  her,  no  more  than  for  Dot,  is  repen- 
tance too  late.  He  cannot  leave  St.  Ann's  beiore  seven  to- 
morrow— there  is  time,  and  to  spare,  yet.  She  will  write  to 
him,  and  tell  him  all — the  whole  truth  ;  one  of  the  men  shall 
start  with  the  letter  at  six  o'clock,  aiul  give  it  to  him  at  the 
station.  And  then — a  smile  and  blush  steal  over  her  face — 
he  will  return  to  her,  and  then • 

She  leaves  the  winch^w,  turns  u[)  the  gas,  sits  down,  and, 
without  waiting  to  think,  commences  to  write.  The  wortls 
flow  faster  than  she  can  set  them  down — not  very  loving, 
perhaps  ;  she  cannot  show  him  all  that  is  in  her  heart  just 
yet,  but  good  wifely  words,  that  will  surely  bring  him.  It  is 
not  long  ;  little  will  suffice  ;  she  signs,  and  seals,  and  directs. 
Then,  as  she  sits  looking  at  the  familiar  name,  a  thought 
strikes  her ;  it  is  the  second  time  in  her  life  she  has  written 
to  Richard  Ffrench.  She  recalls  that  other  letter,  ami  laughs, 
in  the  new  hope  and  happiness  of  her  heart.  Was  there 
ever  such  another  absurd  epistle  penned?  No  wo.kKm-  Dot 
was  amused — poor  Dot  !  who  declared  that  in  the  annals  of 
sentimental  literature,  it  would  stand  alone.  She  is  well 
disposed  to  forgive  Dot  to-night  for  her  share  in  her  marriage. 
If  she  were  still  free  to  choose,  he  is  the  man  of  all  men  she 
would  give  herself  to.  Many  men  she  has  met,  known,  es- 
teemed, liked — loved  not  one  excei)t  this  man  whose  wife 
she  is,  and  him  she  loves  with  her  whole  heart. 

Five  strikes  somewhefe  down  stairs.  She  is  not  sleepy, 
but  it  is  best  to  lie  down  and  rest.  So  in  a  few  moments 
she  is  amid  her  pillows,  and,  very  soon,  the  deep,  tranquil 


k 


ri wi^M 


!i 


I' 


I 


;*i; 


V' 

W 


mi$ 


II 


f 


4« 


//  CAT  /y  TiiK  xrc/rr. 


s1l'c'|)  of  fust  youth  and  pcifci  [  healll\  falls  upon  her,  and  she 
shnnbcrs  (itiietly  as  a  little  child. 

What  was  that  I  She  sits  up  in  sudden  terror  in  the  dark- 
ness. Was  it  a  cry — a  cry  for  help?  She  listens,  her  heart 
beating  fast.  Dead  silence  reigns,  deep  darkness  is  every- 
where, lias  she  been  dreaming,  or  was  it  the  shriek  (;f  a 
night  bird,  the  scream  of  a  belated  gull  ?  No  second  sound 
follows,  and  yet,  how  like  a  cry  it  was,  a  human  cry,  of  fear, 
of  pain  I 

She  rises  hastily  ;  she  must  make  sure  ;  perhaps  Tioi — 
she  dare  not  finish  the  sentence.  She  throws  on  a  dressing- 
gown,  and  hurries  to  Dora's  room.  A  dim  light  burns  in  the 
corridor  ;  she  inserts  the  key  softly  in  the  dressing-room  door, 
enters,  approaches  the  bedroom,  and  looks  in.  All  is  peace. 
The  gas  burns,  a  tiny  star  of  light  ;  on  the  bed  Dora  lies, 
faintly  to  be  discerned,  quite  still,  sleeping  deeply. 

"Thank  Heaven  I  "  Vera  breathes,  "  it  was  a  dream  or  a 
night  bird,  after  all." 

aK  >K  ♦  3|(  «  )«  H: 

I,eft  alone  Dora  Fanshawe  drops  asleep  almost  at  once — 
the  spent  sleep  of  utter  exhaustion.  The  loud  beat  of  the 
rain  on  the  windows  does  not  break  her  rest,  the  heavy 
surging  of  the  trees  is  unheard.  She  sleeps  heavily,  dream- 
lessly,  and  then,  without  sound  or  cause,  suddenly  awakes. 
And  yet  there  is  a  sound  in  the  room,  a  sound  faint,  indeed, 
but  terrible,  the  sound  of  a  man  stealthily  opening  the  jewel- 
cases.  She  springs  up  in  bed,  and  a  shriek,  wild,  piercing, 
long,  rings  through  the  house. 

He  turns  with  an  oath,  and  puts  his  hand  over  her  mouth. 
But  Dora  is  a  plucky  little  woman,  and  struggles  in  his  grasp 
like  a  tiger-cat. 

"  D you  !  "  he  says,  betwee^^  his  clenched  teeth,  "  I'll 

shoot  you  if  you  don't  be  still  !  " 

A  crape  mask  covers  his  face.  With  one  hand  she  tears 
it  off,  with  the  other  she  grasps  the  heavy  whistters  he  wears. 


r,  and  she 

the  (lark- 
licr  heart 

is  every- 
irick  of  a 
11(1  sound 
I,  of  fciir, 

ps  Dot^ 
dressing- 

rns  in  the 

3oni  door, 
is  peace. 

)oia  lies, 

roam  or  a 

« 

at  once — • 
-at  of  the 
he  heavy 
y,  dream- 
y  awakes, 
t,  indeed, 
;he  jevvel- 
piercing, 

IV  mouth, 
his  grasp 


wmmm 


A    CRY  IN    THE   NIG  JIT. 


349 


Their  eyes  meet— the  light  of  the  gas-jet  falls  full  upon  him 
— the  struggle  ceases— for  one  awful  instant  she  stares  up  at 
him,  he  down  on  her.  Then  with  a  dull,  inarticulate  sound 
she  falls  back,  still  retaining  her  hold.  He  tears  himself  free, 
violently,  and,  with  m-c  giving  her  a  second  glance,  thrusts  the 
last  of  the  jewels  into  his  pockets,  unlocks  the  chamber 
door,  and  (lies.  He  is  out  in  the  pitch  darkness  of  the  wilil 
wet  morning  before  Vera  looks  into  her  sister's  roou). 

And  Dora  lies  still  and  sleeps  on,  but  with  wide  open, 
gla/.ing  eyes,  fixed  in  some  strong  horror.  .She  lies  motion- 
less, and  the  open  eyes  staring  blankly  at  the  ceiling  tlutter 
not,  nor  close.  She  has  her  wish  ;  she  will  sleep,  and  on 
this  earth  that  sleep  will  never  be  broken.  The  splendor 
and  the  glory  of  the  world  spread  at  her  feet  woidd  fail  to 
win  one  glance  of  gladness  from  those  sightless  eyes.  The 
mighty  problem  is  solved— of  Time  and  Eternity— the  soul 
that  has  tied  in  the  darkness  and  silence  of  the  night  has 
looked  upon  the  holy  and  awful  face  of  Cxod. 

The  hours  wear  on  ;  ins.  'e  the  sleepers  sleep,  and  quiet 
reigns  ;  outside  the  wind  veers,  and  drives  the  storm-clouds 
before  it ;  a  few  stars  palely  usher  in  the  dawn.  Sounds  of 
life  begin  in  the  house,  servants  still  sleepy  and  tired  drag 
themselves  down  stairs.  Scarlet  and  crimson  clouds  push 
away  with  rosy  hands  the  blackness,  and  presently  the  sun 
rises  like  the  smile  of  God  upon  the  world.  But  Dora  Fan- 
shawe  rises  not,  will  rise  no  more  until  the  resurrection  day. 


;th,  "I'll 


she  tears 
he  wears. 


3S^ 


IN   THE  DEAD  HAND. 


CHAPTER  XII. 


\A 


IN    THE    DEAD    HAND. 

I  IK  first  gleam  of  that  jubilant  sunshine  awakes 
Vera,  and  she  gets  uj).  It  is  half-i)ast  six  ;  pro- 
found (juiet  reigns,  no  one  is  yet  stirring.  Her 
letter  is  her  Hrst  thought,  and  with.  ■  conies  a  second  that 
did  not  present  itself  last  night — nuue  of"  the  men  are  yet 
down,  coachman,  gardener,  stable-boys,  butler — how  then  is 
she  to  send  it?  A  third  difficulty  presents  itself,  these  men- 
servants  are  all  new — Fan^juawe  retainers — who  know  noth- 
ing of  the  Charlton  dynast}',  or  of  Captain  Dick.  The  re- 
sult is  her  letter  is  a  faiuire.  her  penitence  too  late,  it  can- 
not be  sent. 

An  intolerable  sense  of  annoyance  and  disappointment 
fills  her.  She  has  hoped  so  much  only  for  this.  The  fault 
is  all  her  own.  but  it  is  doubtful  if  that  knowledt^e  ever  made 
any  failure  the  easier  to  bear.  It  is  inevitable,  however  ; 
the  letter  cannot  go. 

She  has  dressed  hastily,  and  stands  by  the  window  looking 
out  over  the  grounds,  intense  vexation  in  her  face.  No  one 
is  to  be  seen,  none  of  the  usual  morning  sounds  are  to  be 
heard,  although  far  upstairs  doors  and  wintlows  begin  to  be 
opened,  \\niile  she  stands  an.d  looks,  a  man  suddenly  ap- 
pears, emerging  from  the  summer-house,  at  sight  of  who.n 
she  gives  a  great  and  sudden  start.  P'or,  extraordinary  to 
relate,  it  is  Colonel  Ffrench  himself.  At  .first  she  cannot 
believe  her  eyes,  but  they  are  far-sighted  .ind  seldom  deceive 
her.  It  is  Colonel  Ffrench  himself,  walking  with  the  long, 
military  stride  she  knows  so  well,  carrying  himself  after  his 
usual  resolute  and  erect  fashion,  his  nat  pulled  well  over  his 


mn' 


IN  THE  DEAD  HAND. 


351 


e  awakes 
six  ;  pro- 
ng. Her 
2cond  that 
;ii  arc  yet 
o\v  then  is 
hese  men- 
no  \v  noth- 
The  re- 
ite,  it  can- 

)pointnient 
The  fault 

ever  made 
however  ; 

)\v  hook  in '4 

No  one 

are  to  be 

L^in  to  be 

Jdeiily  ap- 
of  v.ho.a 

rdinary  to 
le  cannot 
n^  deceive 
the  long, 
f  after  his 
II  over  his 


eyes,  going  rapidly  toward  the  gates.     He  docs  not  once 
look  back — if  he  does  he  must  see   her — but    he  does  not. 
He  has  not  gone  then,  alter  all,  he    will  not  catch  the  early 
rain,  she  will  be  in  time  perhaps  yet. 

Sudden  delight  takes  the  i)lace  of  amaze,  to  give  way  to 
amaze  again.  Why  is  he  here  ?  Where  has  he  been  all 
night  ?  Surely  not  yonder  in  the  rain  ?  If  he  stayed  in  the 
summer-house  he  escaped  the  storm  of  course,  but  why  has 
he  stayed  ?  He  neither  fears  a  night  walk  nor  a  wetting. 
How  cruel  she  was,  how  inhos[)itably  cruel  to  let  him  go  as 
she  did,  to  turn  him  from  his  own  house.  For  his  right  to 
Chailton  is  better  than  Dot's,  in  justice,  if  not  in  law,  two 
tilings  by  no  means  synonymous.  How  keen  his  pain  and 
disappointment  nuist  have  been,  how  bitter  his  thoughts 
tlure  in  the  darkness,  and  the  loneliness,  and  the  pelting 
storm,  while  they  danced  and  feasted  witiiin.  And  he 
loves  her !  How  merciless  siie  has  been,  how  merciless  ! 
and  all  the  while  the  whole  w'orld  is  not  half  so  much 
to  her  as  he.  Her  eyes  fill  with  slow,  remorseful  tears,  a 
passion  of  tenderness  and  regret  .swee[)s  through  her.  She 
lias  thought  Dot  craz\'  last  :iight,  but  never  in  her  wildest 
moments  has  i)oor  J^oL  been  half  so  insane,  half  so  inconsis- 
tent as  she. 

Tiiat  reminds  her — she  must  go  to  Dot.  Colonel  Ffrench 
cannot  leave  St.  Ann's  now  before  five  in  the  afternoon.  A 
long  day  lies  before  her.  Just  at  [)resent  her  duty  is  to  her 
sister,  so  she  |Hits  her  own  solicitude  aside  and  hastens  to 
Dora's  chamber.  On  the  bed  Dora  lies  motionless,  sleeinng 
still.  Closed  shutters  and  drawn  curtains  shut  out  the  sun- 
sliine,  the  gas  )et  flickers  feebl}',  and,  to  her  surprise.  Vera 
sees  that  the  bedroom  door  is  ajar.  It  was  locketl  on  tlie 
inside  when  she  (juitted  ti  j  room  at  iialf-i)ast  four  this  mom 
ing.  She  >.ees  something  else — the  empty  antl  rilled  jewel- 
cases.  One  lies  on  the  tloor,  two  others  on  the  table,  but 
all  empty  and  despoiled.     And   now,    in  great   and   sudd.-n 


35: 


IN   THE  DEAD  HAND. 


i 


M\ 


1  I'll, 

■11 


tenor,  she  looks  again  at  the  bed.  Dora  is  there — yes — but 
oh!  what  is  this?  The  rigid  face,  the  upturned,  staring, 
sightless,  glazed  eyes,  the  fallen  jaw,  the  ice-cold  hands.  For 
a  moment,  two,  throe,  four,  she  stands  paralyzed,  stricken 
dumb  ;  then  a  sliriek  [)ierces  the  air,  goes  through  the  house, 
another  and  another,  until  in  five  seconds  as  it  seems,  the 
room  is  filled  with  frightened,  half-dressed  people.  Guests 
and  servants  tlock  in  terror. 

"  Oh  !  what  is  it !  "  is  the  cry  on  every  side.  What  they 
see  is  Mrs.  Fanshawe  lying  dead  on  her  bed,  and  her  sister 
kneeling  beside  her,  clasping  her  hands,  frantic,  beside  her- 
self with  fright  and  grief. 

"  Dot,  speak  to  me  !  Dot,  look  at  me  !  Dot,  my  sister,  it 
is  Vera!  Do  you  not  hear?  Oh  !  great  Heaven  I  no,  she 
does  not  hear.  She  will  never  hear  !  She  is  dead  I  She  is 
murdered  !  " 

She  throws  herself  upon  her,  she  gathers  her  in  her  arms, 
wild  with  the  shock,  the  horror  of  her  loss.  "  She  is  nuir- 
dered,  she  is  nuirdered  !  "  she  cries  again  and  again  in  that 
piercing  voice,  and  at  the  dreadful  word  all  recoil. 

"  Murdered  !  "  pale  lips  echo,  and  terrified  eyes  meet  in 
dismay.  One  man  approaches  and  touches  Vera  gently  on 
the  shoidder. 

"Miss  Martinez,  my  dear  Miss  Martinez,  be  calm.  Let 
me  see  your  sister  ;  I  am  a  medical  man,  you  know.  She 
may  not  be  dead,  it  may  only  be  a  fainting  fit.  Do  let  me 
look  at  her ;  lay  her  down.  My  dear  Miss  Vera,  listen 
to  me." 

She  looks  up  at  him — a  look  ^  agony  that  haunts  him  for 
many  a  day,  a  look  of  unutteiable  horror  and  fear. 

*'  She  is  dead,"  she  says  in  a  whisper,  "  she  is  dead. 
While  we  all  slept  she  ^as  l>een  Fobbed  and  murdered  ! " 
rhe  light  leaves  hwr  eyes  ««4i  the  last  word,  her  arms  relax 
their  hold.   Dr.  Vanderhoff  catches  her  as  she  falls. 

"Thank  Heaven  !  she  has  fainted.     Here,  take  her  away. 


it 


— }'es — but 
id,  staring, 
ands.     For 

d,  stricken 
1  the  house, 
seems,  the 

e.  Guests 

What  they 
1  her  sister 
beside  her- 

ny  sister,  it 
in  !  no,  she 
id  !     She  is 

1  her  aril  IS, 
5he  is  nuir- 
;ain  in  that 
il. 

;s  rncet  in 
gently  on 

;ahn.      Let 

now.     She 

Do  let  me 

era,    listen 

nts  him  for 

is  dead, 
urdered  ! " 
arms  relax 

her  away. 


/iV    77/E  DEAD   HAND. 


353 


' 


Get  out  of  the  room  all  of  you  ;  let  us  see  if  anything  is  to 
be  done." 

Somebody  carries  Vera  away,  one  or  two  weeping  women 
follow.  Restoratives  are  sent  for,  but  she  lies  for  many 
minutes  as  death-like  as  Dora  herself.  P'or  Dora — Dr.  Van- 
derhoff  stands  high  in  his  profession,  but  the  whole  college 
of  surgeons  would  be  unavailing  here.  Mis  tirst  glance  has 
told  him  as  much,  but  he  is  bound  to  do  all  he  can.  A  few 
of  the  frightened  guests  remain  in  the  room,  the  shutters  are 
flung  wide,  the  glorious  golden  sunlight  floods  the  room, 
floods  the  G2ad  face,  the  tixed,  wide-open  eyes  ;  a  grisly 
siiiht  to  see. 

"  Oh  !  doctor,  is  it  true  ?  is  she  dead  ?  "  one  lady  asks, 
with  a  sob. 

"  She  is  quite  dead,  madam,  stone  dead,  and  has  been  for 
hours.     vShe  is  already  cold.     It  is  heart  disease." 

He  rises  from  his  hopeless  task,  and  tries  to  close  the  lids 
over  those  stony  eyeballs  that  only  a  few  hours  ago,  so  aw- 
fully few,  flashed  with  life  and  joy. 

"It  was  only  a  quv-jtion  of  time,"  Dr.  Vanderhoff  says, 
quietly.  He  is  her  guest  and  old  fiiend,  but  he  is  also  a 
])hysici:in  of  many  yeirrs'  standing,  and  all  the  professional 
phlegm  is  in  his  face  and  tone.  *'  I  have  known  for  the 
last  three  years  that  one  day  it  would  come  to  this.  A 
shock  might  have  done  it  at  any  moment.  Poor  little 
woman  !  " 

He  stands  looking  at  her,  a  touch  of  pity  mingling  with 
the  i>rofessional  composure  of  his  face.  The  eyes  will  not 
close,  they  still  strain  upward,  and  on  the  white  dead  face 
is  frozen  a  last  look  of  unutterable  fear. 

"  What  did  Miss  Martinez  mean  by  murder  ?  "  somebody 
asks.     Dr.  Vanderhoff  shrugs  his  shoulders, 

"  A  woman's  first  natural  thought  in  a  case  like  this. 
They  were  very  much  attached  to  each  other,  unusually  at- 
tached.    It  will  be  a  sad  blow  to  her." 


^^^*pi 


;. 


il 


\-  i 


■  ■  1 

ill 


i 


m 


Nil 


i 

UP 

ii  1 

V 

mtvR, ; 

i 

I 

HW, 

ri  : 

■ 

kI'V 

i't 

' 

P'^ 

111 

* 

ilMi 

[Mil 

ym 

■ 

I 

"<.- 

354 


LV    '/■///■    DEAD   lIAiVD. 


"  She  spoke  of  robhcry,  too,"  says  another  ;  "  and  look 
lieie — l(;ok  at   these  t-nipty  jewel-caskets.      Can   it  hu " 

"  And  look  at  ihe  awful  expressic^n  of  her  face,"  exclaims 
a  third  ;  "  as  if  her  last  look  in  life  had  been  one  of  dread- 
ful fright  or  iKiin.  Perha[)s  robbery  and — and  murder  have 
been  done  after  all." 

"  Not  murder,"  says  Dr.  VanderhofT,  incisively.  "  Mrs. 
Fanshawe  has  died  of  heart  disease.  Robbery  there  may 
possibly  have  been — not  murder." 

Strangely  enough  no  one  s|)eaks  of  her  husband,  or  seems 
to  think  of  him  in  this  ai>i)alling  hoiu".  Tiie  infelicity  of  the 
Fansliawes  is  well  known,  the  notorious  neglect  of  the  hus- 
band has  become  an  accepted  fact.  Silence  falls  on  all,  and 
in  that  silence.  Vera,  with  two  or  three  ladies,  re-enters  the 
room.  All  make  way  ;  her  face  is  white  to  deathliness, 
her  eyes  all  wild  and  black.  She  comes  forward  as  if  she 
saw  no  one,  and  kneels  beside  the  bed.  So  kneeling,  with- 
out a  word,  she  looks  on  the  face  of  the  dead. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Vera,"  says  Dr.  Vanderhoff.  There  is 
feeling  in  his   voice:  this  is   outside  the   profession.      "My 

dear  Miss  Vera ''  and   here  he   stops    and  ta[)s  his  gold 

eye-glass  against  his  palm.  It  is  not  so  easy  to  find  words 
for  the  shock  of  a  sorrow  like  this. 

She  does  not  weep,  she  is  strangely,  stonily  still  ;  she 
looks  up  at  him,  and  her  voice  when  she  speaks,  though 
hoarse  and  hurried,  has  no  trace  of  hysterics  or  tears. 

'•  She  has  been  robl)ed,"  she  says,  and  points  to  the 
empty  jewel-cases,   "and  murdered  while  we  all  slept." 

"  Not  murdered,  my  clear  child  ;  do  not  think  anything  so 
dreadful.  Your  pocjr  sister  has  gone,  as  I  knew  she  one  da\- 
must  go,  of  heart-disease.  It  is  a  shock,  but  it  should  not 
be  a  sur|)rise.  She  was  liable  at  any  time.  lier  death  was 
instantaneous  and  free  from  i)ain." 

"  Slie  has  been  murdered,"  Vera  repeats  ;  "it  is  the  same 
thing.     She  was  robbed,  and  the  terror  of  seeing  the  robber 


I    Uli 


and  look 

he " 

exclaims 

of  dread- 

irder  have 


r. 


Mrs. 
;here  may 

,  or  seems 
:ity  of  the 
if  the  hus- 
)n  all,  and 
enters  the 
eathliness, 
I  as  if  fche 
ding,  with- 

There  is 

m.     "  My 

s  his  gold 

ihnd  words 

still  ;  she 
;s,  tiiough 
.rs. 

Its    to    the 
Icpt. 

livthing  so 
le  one  day 

lould    not 
Ideath  was 

the  same 
he  robber 


/.V   77/A'   DEAD  J/.LVD.  355 

killed  her.  If  he  had  sliot  her  he  could  not  hav..  si,  in  ht-r 
more  surel)'." 

"  My  dear  young  lad}' " 

''There  are  the  em|)ty  cases,"  she  cries,  passionately; 
"they  were  filled  this  nv^rning  when  I  left  her.  They  were 
worth  over  ten  thousand  dollars.  And  look  here,  lock  at 
this/' 

For  the  first  time  she  sees  the  crape,  crushed  into  a  ball 
in  her  sister's  hand,  (lently  she  disengages  it,  quivering 
through  all  her  frame  as  she  feels  the  icy  toucli.  She  holds 
it  up. 

"  Look  !  "  she  says,  in  a  stifled  voice.  He  takes  it  in  si- 
lence. It  seems  a  clear  case,  there  has  been  a  struggle, 
and  she  has  torn  this  from  the  face  of  the  robber.  It  is  a 
mask,  with  holes  for  the  eyes  and  niouth. 

"  The  other  liand  is  closed  too,"  says  Dr.  Vanderhoff, 
in  a  subdued  tone. 

She  takes  it.  "  Oh  !  my  little  Dot !  my  little  Dot !  "  she 
says,  and  breaks  down.  It  is  but  for  an  instant;  she  lifts 
her  [tallid  face  and  slowly  and  with  ditficulty  separates  the 
stiftvjned  fingers.  "  Oh  !  look  !  look  !  "  she  cries  out,  "  sae 
this.      Oh  !  my  little  love  !  my  little  love  !  " 

It  is  a  sight  that  sends  a  thrill  through  every  heart  ;  a 
sight  th.it  shows  while  they  all  slept  poor  little  Dora  has 
fought  for  her  life.  And  yet  it  is  only  a  little  tuft  of  hair, 
torn  from  the  head  or  beard  of  the  burglar. 

"Let  me  secure  this,"  says  Dr.  Vandeihoff;  "it  may  be 
necessary." 

Vera  shrinks  back  and  covers  her  face,  trembling  all  over. 
Oh  !  Dora  !  Dora  !  Oh  !  the  agony  that  must  have  been 
hers  in  that  ghastly  struggle,  face  to  face  with  death — that 
dark  death  she  fearixl  so  much.  And  slie,  the  sister  who 
loved  her,  slept  through  it  ai'.  There  flashes  upon  her  the 
memory  of  that  cry  in  the  niglit.  Dora's  death-cry.  W'lule 
she  stood  in   yonder  doorway,  while  she  fancied  she  slept, 


T^W 


356 


IN'   THE  DEAD  HAND. 


\     I 


"U\ 


\      i: 


Dora  was  already  dying  or  dead.  vShe  breaks  out  into  wild 
weeping,  frantic  hysterical  weeping,  all  unlike  Vera.  Oh  ! 
my  sister  !   my  sister  !   my  sister  !  "  is  her  cry. 

And  meantime  Dr.  Vanderhoff  has  carefully  gathered  up 
every  hair  from  the  palm  of  the  dead  hand.  The  small,  pale 
lingers  have  clenched  over  tliem,  as  if  even  in  death  unwil- 
ling to  let  them  go.  He  puts  u[)  his  glass  to  inspect  his 
pri^e  ;  the  last  doubt  is  removed.  Violence  has  been  here, 
robbery  has  been  done,  the  shock  has  caused  death.  Tiie 
others  crowd  about  him  and  look  with  intense,  morbid  in- 
terest. The  liair  is  short,  some  of  the  longest  perhaps  three 
inches,  and  pale-brown  or  chestnut  in  color. 

"Torn  from  a  man's  beard,"  says  the  doctor,  "not  his 
head.  There  is  a  marked  difference  in  the  texture.  Poor 
little  woman  !  " 

And  now  the  shock  is  over,  and  people  come  back  to  the 
inevitable  "What  next?"  What  next  is  to  inform  the 
authorities  ;  notify  the  coroner.  There  must  be  an  inquest, 
he  supposes,  Dr.  Vanderhoff  suggests,  with  a  deprecating 
shrug  and  pijying  look  at  Vera.  And  they  must  get  on  the 
track  of  the  burglar  ]  he  is  half  way  back  to  New  York  by  this 
time,  no  doubt.  It  seems  clear  enough  to  his  mind.  It  is 
not  the  work  of  a  local  thief;  some  tramp  has  given  informa- 
tion to  the  skilled  city  fraternity  of  the  jimmy  and  skeleton- 
key,  and  one  or  more  have  lain  in  waiting  for  these  valuable 
jewels.  How  rash  not  to  have  had  the  constabulary  on  guard, 
or  so  much  as  a  safe  in  the  house.     Bat  it  is  so  like  a  lady. 

"Poor  little  thing,"  says  the  physician,  for  the  third  time. 
'•'  I  never  saw  her  look  so  pretty,  or  seem  in  such  high 
spirits  as  last  night.  Those  unlucky  diamonds,  too  ;  I 
remember  being  struck  by  them  at  the  time.  That  fellow,  her 
husband,"  says  Dr.  Vanderhoff,  lowering  his  tone,  "  what 
about  him  ?  Where  is  he  ?  He  ought  to  be  apprised,  I  sup- 
pose. Not  that  it  matters  much  ;  a  worthless  vagabond.  Who 
knows  his  address  ?  " 


«n 


)ut  into  wild 
Vera.     Oh  ! 

gathered  up 
e  small,  pale 
Jeath  unwil- 
inspect  his 
>  been  here, 
death.  The 
,  morbid  in- 
)erhaps  three 

or,  **  not  his 
ttiire.      Poor 

■  back  to  the 
inform    the 
t  an  inquest, 
deprecating 
it  get  on  the 
York  by  this 
mind.     It  is 
ven  informa- 
nd  skeleton- 
ese  valuable 
iry  on  guard, 
Ice  a  lady. 
e  third  time. 
1  such   high 
nds,   too  ;  I 
t  fellow,  her 
)ne,   "  what 
rised,  I  sup- 
bond.    Who 


IN  THE  DEAD  HAND. 


357 


No  one  knows  it.  Miss  Martinc/.  very  likely  may,  but  no 
ones  feels  like  asking  her  just  at  present. 

*'  In  his  absence,  as  the  oldest  man,  a  friend  of  the  fam- 
ily, and  poor  Afrs.  Fanshawe's  medical  adviser,  1  shall  take 
it  upon  myself  to  direct  proceedings  for  the  present.  Here, 
my  man,  do  you  go  to  the  village  and  send  Mrs.  Fanshawe's 
attorney  here  ;  lose  no  time.  Lodge  information  of  this  sad 
affair  with  your  leading  local  magistrate.  For  you,  my  dear 
ladies,  I  think  it  will  be  best  to  clear  the  room  ;  the  women- 
servants  will  wish  to  prepare  our  poor  friend,  etcetera.  And 
do  take  away  this  poor  child,  if  you  can." 

But  they  cannot ;  no  one  can  remove  Vera,  and  they  go 
and  leave  her.  It  is  nine  o'clock  now,  and  the  guests  dis- 
perse to  talk  over,  in  excited  whisi)ers,  what  has  been  done 
and  what  is  to  be  done.  The  first  thing  is,  that  by  the  train 
to-morrow  they  must  depart.  Charlton  Place  from  a  house 
of  feasting  has  become  a  house  of  death  and  mourning  ;  they 
must  leave  it.  They  can  do  nothing  here,  and  poor  Miss 
Martinez  will  prefer  to  be  alone.  Ah  !  what  a  blow  for  her. 
But  no  doubt  Mrs.  Fanshawe  has  made  her  will  and  pro- 
vided for  her  well,  left  her  everything  very  likely,  and  cut 
off  her  profligate  husband  with  a  shilling.  It  will  serve  him 
right,  the  wretch,  cry  the  ladies  who  were  hardest  on  Dora 
last  night.  He  is  in  New  York,  no  doubt,  the  close  friend 
still  of  thai  horrid  Lalage. 


The  day  passes,  many  people  come  and  go  ;  the  news 
rings  through  the  town  like  wild-fire.  St.  Ann's  is  a  place 
where  literally  nothing  happens.  Since  trade,  and  whalers, 
and  Portuguese  seamen  became  things  of  the  i)ast,  no  violent 
death  has  ever  been  heard  of  within  a  radius  of  thirty 
miles.  People  grow  up,  many,  and  live  happily  forever 
after.  A  burial  is  a  rarity,  a  wediling  a  marvel,  a  birth  a 
a  thing  to  be  discussed,  in  all  its  bearings,  for  a  fortnight.    A 


^^^f^irm 


358 


/X    THE  DEAD  HAND. 


\  .i 


murder  is  unprecedented.  All  the  circumstances  tend  to 
lend  romantic  interest  and  gloom  to  this  tragedy.  The  bril- 
liant birthday  1)all,  the  awful  ending. 

The  authorities  cannot  believe  their  responsible  ears  ;  the 
coroner — peo[)le  have  almost  forgotten  that  potentate  exists 
— stands  aghast.  lie  awakes  to  I'uul  sudden  and  unwelcome 
greatness  thrust  upon  him. 

People  come  with  stealthy  steps  into  tlie  darkened  room 
where  the  pale  little  lady  of  Charlton  lies,  and  look  wiiii 
bated  breath  into  the  rigid  face  and  staring  eyes  that  no  hand 
is  strong  enough  to  close,  at  the  silent  black  figure  sitting 
motionless  beside  it,  and  steal  unconsciously  away.  Vera 
sees  none  of  them,  she  sits  there  in  stupor,  her  hands  locked 
together,  her  eyes  on  the  face  of  her  sister.  She  "  cannot 
wake  her  dead  ;  "  it  is  not  her  Hot  that  lies  here,  it  is  some 
white,  nuite  thing,  some  pale,dreailful  image,  that  fascinates 
her,  and  that  she  cannot  leave.  Absolutely  her  mind  seems 
to  wander  sometimes.  It  is  not  Dot,  this  ghastly  face  and 
rigid  form.  Dora  dead  ! — Dora,  who  was  the  gayest  where 
all  was  gay  only  a  few  hours  ago  ;  whom  she  undressed  and 
kissed  good-night  such  a  little  time  back  ;  whose  sleepy 
words  still  sound  in  her  ears.  Why,  no,  it  is  not  Dot  !  Dot 
dead  I  How  strangely  that  sountls  !  She  puts  her  hand  to 
her  liead  in  a  dazed  sort  of  way  ;  her  thoughts  seem  all  dis- 
connected, everything  about  her  unreal.  People  touch  her, 
speak  to  her ;  she  never  knows  who,  nor  what  they  say. 
Some  one — Harriet — presses  her  to  eat,  and  she  looks  at 
her  m  dismay.  Eat  !  and  this  white,  solemn  wonder  lying 
here  ! — this  face  of  stone  that  they  say  is  Dot  !  Sometimes 
slie  turns  two  dull,  half-sightless  eyes  across  to  where  the 
gloomy  picture  hangs,  and  at  last  a  resentful  feeling — 'the 
first  feeling  of  any  kind  she  is  conscious  of  in  her  numbness 
— rises  within  her.  //  has  IkuI  something  to  do  with  this 
dreadful  thing  that  has  fallen  u[)on  her.  "  Take  it  away  !  " 
she  sa\s,  angrily,  to  Harriet,  who  hovers  about  her  constantly. 


*li,. 


,T.»i\»'.VMM 


IN  THE   DEAD   HAXD. 


ices  tend  to 
y.     The  bril- 

ble  ears  ;  the 
entato  exists 
d  unwelcome 

rkened  room 
id    look   with 
that  no  hand 
figure  sitting 
iway.      Vera 
lands  locked 
She  "  cannot 
■e,  it  is  some 
lat  fascinates 
■  mind  seems 
tly  face  and 
jayest  where 
idressed  and 
diose  sleepy 
•t  Dot  !   Dot 
her  hand  to 
ieem  all  (lis- 
le touch  her, 
lat  they  say. 
she  looks  at 
vonder  lying 
Sometinies 
)   where  the 
feeling — •the 
er  numbness 
do  with  this 
;  it  away  !  '' 
r  constantly. 


I  hate  it  !— so  did  she  !    It  frightened  hor  last  ni-Iit.     T  ike 
It  away  I  "  ° 

Without  a  word,  Harriet  removes  the  picture,  and  tiie 
dreary  ga/e  goes  back  to  the  dead. 

"If  she  would  only  cry  a  spdl  !  "  said  Harriet,  crvin- 
copiously  herself,  "'twould  do  her  a  sight  o'  good.  I't's  a 
drefful  thing  to  see  her  a  ...ain'  like  that.  1  declare  it  skcers 
me,  and  I  ain't  of  the  easy  skeert  kind  nulher." 

Karly  in  the  aflernooii  a  visitor  comes,  whom  Harriet  re- 
ceives with  distinction.  After  a  moment's  whispered  collo- 
quy, she  g(;cs  up  to  the  dark  room  with  a  glimmer  of  new 
hope.  ''\{  any  one  can  perk  I,cr  up, 'twill  be  him.  She 
allers  set  a  Mght  o'  store  by  Captain  Dick,"  she  thinks. 

She  bends  above  her  wuh  wonderful  gentleness  for  grim 
old  Harriet. 

"Miss  Vera,  honey,  here's  Captain  Dick,  your  own  Cap- 
tain Dick,  deary,  and  he  wants  to  see  you.  Won't  you  coiue 
down  to  him  just  a  minute?" 

Wra  looks  up,  with  a  certain  angry  impatience  that  is 
singularly  unlike  her.  Even  this  name  is  powerless  to  move 
her. 

"  I  want  to  stay  here.  Do  let  me  alone.  So  many  peo- 
ple come  !  I  wish  they  would  not.  Why  can't  1  be  quiet  ? 
Go  away,  Harriet  !  " 

"  But,  lovey.  Captain  Dick " 

"  Oh !  what  does  he  want  ?  I  thought  he  was  gone.  T 
can't  go.  1  don't  want  to  talk.  Do  leave  me  alone— do- 
do !  " 

It  IS  of  no  use  ;  nothing  can  arouse  her,  and  Harriet  goes. 
Colonel  Ffrench  listens,  profound  trouble  and  anxiety  on  his 
face. 

"Poor  child!"  he  says.  "  xVo  wonder  she  is  stunned.  I 
shall  reuKim,  Harriet,  until  the  end.  Do  what  you  can  for 
her — poor  child,  poor  child  !  " 

Night  closes  over  the  gloomy  house,  wears  away,  and  a  sec- 


SCio 


IN   THE  DEAD  I/AND. 


Olid  inorniiig  tlawns.  There  is  little  change  in  Vera.  They 
cannot  force  her  away,  but  she  has  fallen  heavily  and  exhau^t- 
cdly  asleep  at  her  post,  and  Dr.  Vanderhoff  lifts  her  and  lays 
her  on  her  bed.  The  guests  go,  glad  to  be  gone.  An  ofticer 
or  two  are  down  from  the  city,  and  search  has  begun  for  the 
burglar.  As  yet  little  trace  has  been  found.  In  the  soft 
gravel  and  clay  footprints  have  been  discovered,  but  so 
many  have  come  and  gone  that  that  amounts  to  lutle.  A 
man  has  spent  the  night  in  the  summer-house,  for  the  stable- 
boy,  looking  out  about  seven  o'clock,  from  his  attic  winc'ow, 
saw  him  hastily  de[)art.  But  burglars  do  not,  a,  a  rule,  for 
fear  of  a  wet  jacket,  take  shelter  in  the  grounds  of  the  place 
they  have  robbed.  Still  a  note  is  made  of  it,  the  summer- 
house  searched,  and  nothing  found.  The  inciuest  is  to  be 
on  the  third  day  ;  something  will  come  to  light  then.  The 
robbery  and  the  death,  alone,  are  talked  of  everywhere.  Who 
is  to  inherit  Mrs.  Kanshawe's  fortune  ? 

And  then  it  leaks  out — no  one  knows  how — that  the  late 
Mr.  Charlton's  step-son,  Richard  Kfrench,  is  sole  heir.  Some 
one  has  seen  him,  and  tells  some  one  else.  Richaid  Ffrench 
is  here,  and  for  the  first  time  in  six  years.  What  is  he  doing 
here  ?  No  one  knows.  Is  he — was  he — -a.  friend  of  Mrs. 
Fanshawe  ?  Not  likely,  or  he  would  have  been  at  the 
house.  But  he  was  at  the  house,  late  last  night,  though  he 
was  not  at  the  ball.  How  this  last  fact  gets  wind  it  is  im- 
possible to  say — you  might  as  well  hope  to  wring  secrets 
from  the  tomb  as  from  Harriet,  but  get  wind  it  does.  Tiu 
very  birds  of  the  air  seem  to  carry  news  to-day.  He  was  at 
the  house  last  night  in  secret  and  uninvited.  He  and  Mrs. 
Fanshawe  were  not  good  friends.  He  is  the  heir — sole  heir, 
the  only  cue  to  profit  by  her  death !  Men  look  at  one 
another.  Men  stare  at  him  in  the  street  as  he  passes  by. 
Silence  falls  on  talkative  groups  when  he  appears.  Suspicion 
— that  most  awful  thing  that  can  look  out  of  human  eyes — 
suspicion  looks  at  him  out  of  all  the  eyes  he  meets.     In 


H 

1 

i! 

k 

IN  THE    DEAD   HAND. 


361 


ra.     They 

k1  exhau^t- 
jr  and  lays 
An  officer 
run  for  tlio 
\w  the  soft 
icl,    but   so 
little.       A 
the  stable- 
:ic  window, 
,  a  rule,  for 
)f  the  place 
ic   sunniier- 
ist  is  to  be 
then.     The 
/here.   Who 

ihat  the  late 
lieir.    Some 
lard  Ffrench 
is  he  doing 
|nd  of    Mrs. 
leen    at   the 
,  though  he 
ul  it  is  im- 
Iring  secrets 
Idoes.     The 
He  was  at 
le  and   Mrs. 
|- — sole  heir, 
)ok    at    one 
passes  by. 
Suspicion 
[man  eyes — 
meets.     In 


what  manner  the  truth  comes  to  him  it  is  difl'icult  to  tell,  but 
it  does  come  in  a  slow,  creeping  amaze  and  shoe  k,  that  turns 
him  cold.  It  is  not  the  shock  of  pli)si{:al  fear — that  he  has 
never  known  ;  it  is  something  ipiite  different  anil  unspeaka- 
bly more  terrible.  It  takes  to  itself  wings,  the  breeze  carries 
it,  the  birds  sing  it — it  i)enetrates  every  corner  of  St.  Ann's. 
And  on  the  evening  of  this  second  day  it  reaches  Charlton 
I'lace  and  is  breathed  in  the  ear  of  Harriet  Hart.  Who  the 
audacious  tale-bearer  may  be  is  unknown — Haniet's  glance 
of  wrathful  scorn  must  have  annihilated  him  forever.  Hut 
she  sets  her  thin  lii)s  and  marches  straight  to  Vera.  She 
must  know  this. 

The  dark,  hopeless  eyes  look  up  at  her  pathetic  illy.  If 
only  for  one  hour  they  would  leave  her  alone  ! 

"Miss  Vera,"  says  Harriet,  resolutely,  "you  must  rouse 
yourself  and  listen  to  me.  It  is  time.  Captain  Ffrench  is 
here,  and " 

"  Again  !  "  Vera  breaks  in  with  a  tired  sort  of  cry.  "  Oh  ! 
I  cannot  see  him  !  Why  do  you  torment  me  ?  I  thought 
he  had  gone." 

"  He  is  not  gone — he  is  not  going — he  will  not  be  let  go, 
mebbe,  if  he  wants  to.  Are  you  so  took  up  with  the  dead 
that  you  have  no  feelin'  left  for  the  livin' ?  I  tell  you  a  hor- 
rid thing  is  goin'  about,  and  you've  got  to  hear  it  if  you 
should  take  on  ever  so.  The  man's  your  husband  when 
all's  said  and  done,  and  a  live  husband  is  more'n  a  dead  sis- 
ter, I  reckon,  any  day.  Captain  Dick  is  here,  and — look  ac 
me,  Miss  Vera — listen  to  me — the  folks  is  a  sayin'  as  he  is 
the  thief  that  broke  in  and  stole  Miss  Fanshawe's  dia- 
monds !  " 


^  fl 


i ' 


t;i 


m 


I 


;'?is        i 


L 


jii 


3<52 


/iV   rZ/y^   /^z/A-A'  //(^d/A*. 


chaptf:r  XIII. 


IN    THK    DARK    HOUR. 


r  is  the  third  day,  and  the  in(|uest  is  about  to  begin. 
Very  many  people  are  present — it  is  rumored  that 
Miss  Marline/,  is  to  testify,  and  that  the  suspected 
iiKin  will  be  there.  It  is  rumored,  too,  that  Colonel  Ffrench 
and  Miss  Martinez  are  more  to  each  other  than  the  world 
knows,  and  that  it  was  to  see  /lerhc  visited  Charlton  on  the 
nigiit  of  the  robbery.  The  interest  in  the  tragedy  deepens 
with  every  hour.  The  military  rank  and  romantic  history  of 
the  dashing  soUlier  of  fortune  intensify  it ;  the  runior  that  he 
is  positively  the  husband  of  Miss  Martinez,  and  has  been  so 
for  u)any  years,  adds  a  zest  beyond  belief.  It  will  be  curious 
to  see  them  together — to  hear  her  testify  against  him,  it  may 
be.  She  is  hardly  likely  to  spare  a  husband  she  will  not  live 
with,  where  a  sister,  beloved  beyond  the  love  of  sisters,  is 
concerned.  Mr.  Dane  Fanshawe  has  not  yet  been  notified 
of  his  bereavement.  Vera  does  not  know  his  address,  it  ap- 
pears, and  fires  up  with  sudden  passion  at  the  bare  mention 
of  his  name. 

"It  is  his  fault !"  she  cries  out,  vehemently — "it  is  his 
doing  !  If  he  had  been  here,  it  would  never  have  happened  1  " 
More  than  this  she  declines  to  say.  **  I  hate  him  I "  she 
breaks  forth,  when  the  question  is  pressed — "  I  never  want 
to  see  his  face  or  hear  his  name  !  I  would  not  tell  you  if  I 
knew!" 

So  Mr.  Fanshawe  is  still  absent,  and  people  are  a  little 
shocked  at  Miss  Martinez's  vehemence.  It  is  all  the  more 
striking  as  her  general  manner  is  all  that  there  is  of  high-bred 
repose.     Still  she  is  perhaps  excusable,  poor  thing  ;  she  has 


t  to  begin, 
nored  that 

suspected 
lel  Ffrencli 

the  world 
on  on  the 
:ly  deepens 
;  history  of 
nor  that  he 
as  been  so 

be  curious 
him,  it  may 
vill  not  live 
sisters,  is 
;en  nolifieil 

ress,  it  ap- 

•e  mention 

"  it  is  his 
appened  !  " 
lim  !  "  she 
never  want 
ell  you  if  I 

ire  a  little 
the  more 

if  high-bred 
;  she  has 


IN   THE    DAKK-  HOUR. 


3^'3 


lost  everything,  and,  apart  from  that,  she  really  loved  her 
sister  very  dearly.  They  stood  (iuite  alone  in  the  world,  and 
poor  Mrs.  l-'anshawe  has  been  as  a  mother  to  her.  What  a 
singular  will  that  of  old  Mr.  Charlton  is  !  Still,  considering 
how  infiituated  he  was  about  Dora,  and  how  very  fond  of 
Dick  in  those  days,  natural.  And  Dick  I'french  inherits 
everything  !  Humph  !  say  the  gossips,  and  look  at  him  cu- 
riously— it  is  hoped  he  will  clearly  account  for  every  hour  of 
that  fatal  night,  from  the  time  he  [larted  with  Miss  Martinez 
until  after  the  discovery  in  Mrs.  Fanshawe's  room. 

The  jury  and  coroner  take  their  places,  looking  uncom- 
fortable ;  they  are  rustic  gentlemen,  and  the  coroner  has 
known  and  liked  Dick  I'french  ever  since  he  first  came  to 
Charlton.  The  ofticers  of  the  detective  force,  and  the  local 
constabulary,  are  also  i)resent.  The  crowd  is  great,  it  fills 
the  long  ballroom  where  the  incpicst  is  held.  Every  onr  .-.uires 
about  curiously.  It  was  in  this  room  she  danced  aw  i\  die 
last  hours  of  her  life.  The  serious  nnnded  shudder  ;  tli  ii  was 
a  dance  of  death  indeed,  a  dreadful  way  to  go  down  to  the 
grave — one's  last  act  a  crazy  cotillion.  IJut  up  stairs,  in  her 
costly,  silver-mounted,  satin-lined  casket,  Dora  lies,  with 
face  of  marble  and  frozen  eyes,  and  hears  nor  heeds  not. 
And  into  the  long,  thronged  apartment  Miss  Martinez  comes 
presently  and  there  is  a  flutter,  a  hush-h-h  !  from  all,  and 
every  eye  turns  ui)on  her. 

How  white  she  is  in  her  long,  straight,  black  dress,  with  its 
great  folds  of  crape  ;  how  tall,  how  solemn.  She  has  grown 
thin,  and  her  big  black  eyes  look  unnaturally  large  and  weird. 

She  goes  straight  to  where  Colonel  Ffrench  sits,  and  holds 
out  her  hand. 

"  I  am  glad  you  are  here,"  she  says,  steadily.  "  It  is  kind 
of  you  to  stay." 

A  dark  flush  mounts  to  his  forehead — he  rises  and  takes 
in  both  his,  the  hand  she  extends,  and  does  not  quickly  let 
it  go. 


i.illl 


364 


IN   THE   DARK  HOUR. 


Greedily  the  crowd  strain  eyes  to  see,  and  ears  to  listen. 
They  are  friends  then,  these  two,  after  all.  But  Richard 
Ffrench  understands — she  has  heard  the  truth,  the  suspicions 
afloat  have  reached  her.  This  is  her  vindication.  It  is  fhe 
same  true,  brave  instinct  that  sent  her  to  his  side  that  morn- 
ing at  Shaddeck  Light,  with  her  head  thrown  back,  her  eyes 
flashing,  and  her  defiant  "Captain  Dick  is  not  to  blame  !  " 

God  bless  her  !  she  is  the  same  dear  little  Vera  after 
all! 

Miss  Martinez  is  giving  her  testimony  with  wonderful  clear- 
ness and  conciseness,  considering  the  effort  it  cost  her  to  be 
here  at  all.  Harriet's  words  have  roused  her,  thoroughly 
and  effectually  ;  she  will  relapse  into  stupor  no  more.  To 
suspect  Richard  Ffrench  of  so  ignoble  a  crime  !  of  so  dastardly 
a  deed  !  Richard  Ffrench,  brave  as  his  namesake  of  old, 
without  fear  and  without  reproach,  to  steal  in,  and  rob  a 
woman  !  How  dare  they !  Her  splcnd'.;^  eyes  blaze  on 
these  people — if  looks  were  lightning  it  would  go  ill  with 
some  of  the  St.  Ann's  gossips.  wShe  tells  her  story  without 
breaking  down  once,  and  is  allowed  to  depart.  On  her  way 
uut  she  turns  to  Colonel  Ffrench  again. 

"  Come  back  this  evening,"  she  says,  "it  is  so  lonely;" 
her  lip  (piivers.     "  Come  and  share  my  watch — my  last." 

"  1  will  come,"  he  answers,  more  moved  than  he  dare 
show,  and  he  clasps  her  hand  once  more  a  moment,  and  sees 
her  go. 

Dr.  Vanderhoff  gives  his  testimony — he  is  positive  no 
violence  has  been  used.  Mrs.  Fanshawe  died  of  heart- 
disease.  The  shock  of  seeing  the  robber,  and  struggling 
with  him,  as  she  evidently  did,  was  the  immediate  cause, 
but  by  any  act  of  violence  on  his  part — no.  The  hair  and 
crape  are  produced  ;  they  go  to  prove  that  the  thief  was 
masked,  and  wore  whiskers,  either  real  or  false.  All  eyes 
at  this  point,  turn  instinctively  to  the  Cuban  colonel,  sitting 
with  folded  arms,  and  coldly  resolute  face.     He  wears  no 


*i-Jc 


mmmm 


IN  THE  DARK  HOUR. 


365 


s  to  listen, 
^ut  Richard 
e  suspicions 
.  It  is  Hie 
:  that  morn- 
:k,  her  eyes 
I  blame  !  " 
Vera  after 

iderful  clear- 
[)st  her  to  be 
•,  thoroughly 
I  more.  To 
:  so  dastardly 
isake  of  old, 
n,  and  rob  a 
^es  blaze  on 
d  go  ill  with 
ptory  without 
On  her  way 

so  lonely  ; " 
•my  last." 
lan  he  dare 
lent,  and  sees 

positive  no 
ed  of  heart- 
id  struggling 
:diate  cause, 
The  hair  and 
le  thief  was 
e.  All  eyes 
lonel,  sitting 
'e  wears  no 


whiskers  ok  beard,  a  heavy,  dark  mustache  alone  shades  his 
mouth,  but  does  not  conceal  its  fine,  determined  contour, 
nor  the  shai:)ely,  well  iounded,  obsiinate  chin.  A  man 
whose  reputation  is  not  lightly  to  be  tnrlcd  with  ;  a  man  not 
to  be  too  (piickly  or  easily  accused;  a  man  who  knows  h(nv 
to  defend  his  own  honor  and  g('X)d  name,  or  that  mouth  aiul 
chin,  those  dark,  detenniued  eyes,  belie  him. 

Dr.  Vanderhoff  goes,  and  the  servants  are  examined. 
Have  any  of  them  seen  tran.^ps  or  suspicious  characters  lurk- 
ing about  lately  ?  And  then  A  comes  out  that  the  stable-boy 
has.  Johnny,  the  stable-boy,  appears,  looking  frightened 
and  irresolute.  He  stanni*r;rs  a  great  deal,  and  what  he  has 
to  say  is  not  easily  got  at.  ''/ot  at,  however,  it  amounts  to 
this — at  seven  on  the  morning  of  the  death,  he  saw  a  man 
coming  out  of  the  summer-house  in  the  grounds,  and  hurry- 
ing away  toward  the  gates.  Did  he  know  the  man  ?  No, 
Johnny  does  not  know  him,  but — more  frightened  than  be- 
fore— he  breaks  off,  and  looks  askance  at  Colonel  Ffrench. 

"'Twas  //////  /"  Jtihnny  says,  with  a  burst. 

Then  there  is  a  thrill,  and  a  hard-drawn  breath,  and  a  sen- 
sation through  the  crowd,  if  you  like  !  And  in  the  midst  of 
it  Colonel  Ffrench  rises,  as  calm  as  he  is  wont  to  be  when 
he  leads  his  men  to  the  hottes^  of  the  fight,  but  perhaps  a 
trifle  more  pale. 

"The  lad  is  ([uite  right,"  he  says,  "it  was  I  he  saw.  I 
left  the  suuimer-house  about  seven  on  that  morning." 

"You  are  not  obliged.  Colonel  French "  begins  the 

coroner,  nervously,  but  Colonel  Ffrench  goes  cjuietly  on  : 

"  1  had  been  here  about  ten  the  i)receding  night.  Pri- 
vate business,  concerning  only  myself  and  Miss  Martinez, 
brought  me.  It  was  not  necessary  to  disturb  Mrs.  Vxw- 
shawe  by  my  presence,  so  I  did  not  see  her.  I  remained 
conversing  with  Miss  Martinez  over  iuUf  an  hour.  Tlien  [ 
left.  It  was  raining  heavily,  and  blov/mg  a  gale.  1  did  not 
care  about  facing  the  two-mile  walk  to  St.  Ann's  in  the  teeth 


■^■^^ 


!f 


r  s! ' 


366 


IN  THE  DARK  HOUR. 


of  the  storm,  and  knowing  the  place  well,  I  went  to  the 
summer-house.  1  sat  there  for  some  hours,  but  the  storm 
did  not  abate,  and  finally  I  fell  asleep.  I  left  as  soon  as  I 
woke,  about  seven,  and  so  missed  the  first  train  to  New 
York,  which  I  had  intended  to  take." 

There  is  silence — extremely  awkward  silence.  Dr.  Hun- 
ter, the  coroner,  has  never  felt  so  embarrassed  and  non- 
plussed in  his  life.  It  has  an  ugly  look — a  devilishly  ugly  look, 
he  thinks,  for  the  colonel.  What  the  dense  made  him  stay  in  the 
summer-house  ?  Confound  the  summer-house,  and  confound 
Johnny's  prying  eyes.  He  gives  that  youngster  a  savage 
glance  that  makes  him  quake.  There  is  not  much  more  to 
be  done.  The  whole  thing  is  hasty  and  informal,  the  jury 
feel  as  uncomfortable  as  the  coroner,  and  about  noon  a  ver- 
dict in  "  accordance  with  the  facts"  is  returned.  Mrs.  Fan- 
sliawe  has  died  of  heart-disease,  induced  by  the  shock  of  the 
robbery  committed  by  some  i)erson  or  persons  unknown. 

The  detectives  down  from  New  York  look  at  one  another 
and  grin.  Men  exchange  looks,  and  shrug  their  shoulders, 
coroner  and  jury  look  unspeakably  relieved,  and  de[)art  with 
stolid  faces.  They  have  done  their  duty — now  let  the  de- 
tectives find  out  the  robber  if  they  can.  Tlie  throng  dis- 
perses, and  Colonel  Ffrench  follows,  amazingly  erect  and 
upright,  cool  and  unflinching  for  a  suspected  criminal. 

That  evening  brings  Mr.  Dane  Fanshawe,  pale,  breathless, 
horror-stricken.  Vera  looks  at  him  in  honest  surprise,  as 
she  sees  the  grief,  the  real  regret  in  his  face,  and  softens  to 
him  ever  so  little. 

After  all,  perhaps,  some  men  cannot  help  being  half  fool, 
half  knave — it  seems  born  with  them — and  he  has  reason  to 
be  sorry,  for  he  has  killed  the  goose  that  laid  the  golden 
eggs.     Vera  cannot  refrain  from  telling  him  so. 

"  All  that  will  not  bring  her  back,"  she  says,  with  a  touch 
of  scorn  ;  "  if  you  had  been  here,  it  need  never  have  hap- 
pened.    1  say  it  is  your  doing  as  much  as  the  burglars'  !  " 


n 


m 


IN   THE  DARK  HOUR. 


367 


'ent  to  the 
t  the  storm 
3  soon  as  I 
in  to   New 

Dr.  Hiin- 
d  and  non- 
y  ugly  look, 
11  stay  in  the 
id  confound 
r  a  savage 
icli  more  to 
al,  the  jiny 
noon  a  ver- 

Mrs.  Fan- 
hock  of  the 
iknown. 
3ne  another 
r  shoulders, 
depart  with 

let  the  de- 
throng  dis- 

erect    and 

inal. 

breathless, 

surprise,  as 
softens  to 

g  half  fool, 
s  reason  to 
the  golden 

ith  a  touch 
•  have  hap- 
■glars'  !  " 


"  But,  good  Heaven  !  Vera,  how  could  I  tell  ?  "  Me  is 
so  pale,  so  piteous,  so  tremulous,  as  he  says  it,  that  she  re- 
lents. "  I  did  not  think — how  could  any  one  ever  think  it 
would  come  to  this  ?  " 

"  She  showed  me  your  telegram  !  "  Vera  exclaiins,  her 
eyes  flashing.  '*  From  first  to  last,  Dane  Fanshawe,  you 
have  acted  toward  her  like  a  brute,  and — oh,  my  poor  lit'.le 
Dot,  she  was  fond  of  you  !  " 

He  lays  his  face  on  the  mantel  with  a  groan.  He  is 
actually  crying,  the  weak,  poor  creature  ;  but  it  is  more 
than  Vera,  than  any  one  would  have  given  him  credit 
for. 

"  I  would  give  my  life,  so  hear  me  Heaven,"  he  says,  "  to 
bring  her  back  !  " 

Perhajis  at  the  moment  he  means  it.  She  sighs  drearily, 
and  lays  her  tired  head  down  upon  the  casket. 

"Bring  her  back  !"  she  repeats,  with  a  sob  ;  "bring  her 
back  !     Oh,  Dora  !  my  dear,  my  dear  !  " 

She  has  not  wei)t  much,  but  some  subtle  chord  is  touched 
every  now  and  then,  and  a  rain  of  tears  follows.  She  cries 
now  silently  and  long.  **  My  dear  little  love  !  my  dear  little 
love  !  "  she  repeats  over  and  over.  Never  once  has  one 
unkind  or  harsh  word  fallen  from  Dora's  lips  to  her.  Dora 
has  loved  her,  cared  for  her,  made  sacrifices  for  her,  and  in 
Dora's  dying  hour,  in  her  desperate  death  struggle,  she  was 
not  there  to  save  or  help. 

Richard  Ffrench  comes,  and  she  lifts  two  sLreaniing  eyes 
for  one  moment  in  appeal  to  his  face.  "  You  are  all  1  have, 
do  not  leave  me  !  "  that  glance  says,  if  he  could  but  read  it. 
He  takes  his  place  near  her  in  silence,  but  a  silence  that  is 
full  of  sympathy,  and  that  sootlies  her.  It  is  good  to  have 
hiiii  here,  it  is  a  comfort,  a  protection,  something  to  cling  to 
in  her  great  and  sudden  shipwreck. 

The  funeral  is  to  be  next  day,  and  the  concourse  will 
be  unprecedented.     The  whole  country  side  means  to  liuii 


Illfi 


'<    ! 


■J 


368 


IN   THE  DARK  HOUR. 


out  in  sombre  force.  Friends  come  down  from  the  city — no 
such  funeral  has  ever  taken  place  in  St.  Ann's.  Many  per- 
sons i)ass  in  and  out  in  the  room  of  death  ;  Vera  is  there 
constantly,  worn  and  wan  to  a  degree.  Once,  as  she  sits  at 
her  dreary  and  solitary  post,  a  small,  common-looking  man 
comes  up  to  her,  and  makes  an  awkward  bow. 

*'  Ask  pardon,  miss,"  he  says,  in  an  apologetic,  guarded 
undertone.      "I'm  Daggit." 

Vera  stares  blankly. 

"  Daggit,  miss,"  repeats  the  small  man,  in  a  whisper,  "  of 
the  detective  force — private.  Empl  yed  by  your  sister — 
party  lately  deceased.  Down  here  on  my  own  hook,  in  this 
un[)lcas;.nt  business.  Would  you  mind  telling  me,  miss,  who 
that  nice-looking,  lady-like  young  gentleman  is?" 

lie  points  straight  at  Dane  Fanshawe. 

"  Him,  miss,  with  the  wipe — ask  pardon,  the  handkerchief 
up  to  his  face.     He's  the  husband,  ain't  he,  miss  ?" 

*'  Yes,"  she  says,  mechanically;  "  it  is  ATr.  Fanshawe." 

Mr.  Daggit's  light  eyes  seem  to  bore  two  holes  through 
^fr.  Fanshawe's  anatomy  on  the  spot. 

"  'I'hanky,  miss.  Yes,  1  knovved  it  was.  Not  on  good 
terms,  was  they,  miss — him  and  the  deceased  party  ?  S|)eak 
up,  miss,  if  you  please.  Fve  tackled  this  job  on  my  own 
hook,  and  mean  to  see  daylight." 

"  No,  not  on  good  terms,"  answers  Vera,  still  half  bewil- 
dered as  to  his  drift. 

"  Hard  ap,  wasn't  he,  miss  ?  Running  after  a  ])lay-actor 
— ask  pardon  for  naming  her.  They're  expensive,  that  lot — • 
uncommon!  Deceased  party — ask  pardon,  lady  wouldn't 
pay  his  debts  ?     Hem-m  !  " 

Mr.  iXiggit  bores  another  hole  through  Mr.  Fanshawe,  and 
passes  his  liand  nuisingly  over  his  mouth. 

'•  Was  in  Philadelphia  at  the  time,  wasn't  he?" 

"  i\\  rhiladelphia." 

*'  Only  saw  it  in  the  Herald  by  chance — rum  start  that,  for 


/N   THE   DARK  HOUR. 


369 


e  city — no 
Many  per- 
■a  is  tht;re 
she  sits  at 
(king  man 

:;,  guarded 


Isper,  "  of 

ir   sister — 

ok,  in  this 

miss,  who 


ndkerchief 

ihawe." 
;s  through 

on  good 
?  Si)eak 
1  my  own 

alf  bewil- 

)lay-actor 
hat  lot  — 
wouldn't 

lawe,  and 


that,  for 


a  man  !  The  coroner's  got  the  hair  ?  "  he  says,  so  abrup'.ly 
that  Vera  stares  at  him  once  more. 

"Yes,"  she  says,  wonderingly. 

The  light  eyes  are  on  Mr.  Dane  Fanshawe's  Dundreary 
whiskers,  as  if  counting  every  separate  hair. 

"  Hum-m  !  "  he  muses  again.  "  And  that  tall  gent,  with 
the  broad  shoulders,  and  his  head  up,  is  he  heir  ? — him  as 
they — ask  pardon,  miss — him  as  they  suspect  ?  " 

*'  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  Vera  says,  shrinking  from 
him  in  sudden  terror,  "  I  don't  know  who  you  are." 

**Ask  pardon,  miss,  for  troubling  you.  Won't  ask  any 
more  questions.  I'm  Daggit,  miss,  as  your  sister  employed 
to  look  up  that  i)recious  husband  of  hers,  and  that  singing 
hussy — ask  pardon.  And  I  /niTe  looked  him  u[),  and  I  moLUi 
to  keep  on  looking  him  up,  and  see  daylight  if  I'm  shot  for 
it  ! " 

That  is  the  last  of  Mr.  Daggit.  Vera  sees  him  no  more, 
and  forgets  him  in  a  moment.  For  the  metallic  case  incloses 
the  rosewood  casket — she  i-^  taking  her  last  look  at  tiie  dcail 
face,  her  last  kiss  of  the  dead  lips,  the  last  farewell  of  the 
sister  she  loves.  This  side  of  eternity  they  will  meet  no 
more. 

"  Oh,  my  love  !  my  love  ! "  she  cries  out  wildly,  struck 
witli  sudtlen  horror  and  panic.  Some  one  comes  at  that 
frightened,  helpless  cry,  and  puts  his  arms  about  her  before 
them  all,  and  holds  her. 

"  Vera,  my  own  love,"  says  a  voice  she  knows  well. 
''Vera,  my  dear,  my  dear!"  And  '^he  clings  to  him  and 
hides  her  face  on  his  shoulder,  quivermg  all  over,  while  the 
case  is  screwed  down,  and  the  dead  woman  taken  away.  In 
these  sublimated  moments  we  forget  ourselves  and  the  world 
outside  of  us,  but  never  for  long.  He  lets  her  go,  consigning 
her  to  the  care  of  Harriet,  who  looks  on,  tearful  hut  approv- 
ing, and  goes  with  the  rest.  And  Mns.  Grundy  does  not  say 
much — consid'-ring  she  has  known  him  so  long,  and  been 
16* 


5' 


HIi 


\i 


370 


IN  THE  DARi^  HOUR. 


always  attached  to  him,  and  the  occasion  and  everything. 
And  he  is  a  splendid  fellow  !  the  ladies  declare  in  an  irrele- 
vant burst.  On  the  whole,  some  of  them  would  not  mind  it 
themselves. 

They  lay  Theodora  Lightwood  Fanshawe  in  the  Charlton 
vault,  where  John  and  Robert  Charlton  already  lie,  and  go 
and  leave  her.  She  is  dead  and  buried.  The  interest 
centres  in  Colonel  Ffrench  now.  Things  look  badly  for 
him — very  badly.  Murmurs  are  rising,  swelling,  growing 
louder.  He  is  the  heir,  the  only  one  to  benefit  by  her  death, 
he  was  there  that  night,  no  one  knows  why  ;  he  s])ent  it  in 
the  grounds,  by  his  own  showing.  He  and  Mrs.  Fanshawe 
were  not  good  friends — it  looks  badly.  If  he  was  a  poor  man 
he  would  not  be  let  off  scot-free  in  this  way  ;  he  would  not 
be  at  large  with  a  cloud  of  robbery  and  sudden  death  upon 
him.  The  rumor  grows  and  ^;,rows,  louder  and  more  threat- 
ening, and  reaches  Charlton.  It  reaches  Harriet,  and  Har- 
riet carries  it  to  Vera.  The  end  will  be  that  Colonel  Ffrench, 
before  a  week,  will  lie  in  prison. 

'l\vc  days  have  passed  since  the  funeral  ;  it  is  the  after- 
noon of  the  third.  Colonel  Ffrench  sits  in  his  room  alone, 
at  the  St.  Anns  llotel.  No  public  demonstration  has  yet 
been  made,  but  no  one  sees  the  gathering  storm  more 
clearly  than  he.  He  is  strongly  susi)ected,  he  cannot  clear 
himself;  before  another  day  a  warrant  may  be  out  for  his 
arrest;  he  may  be  lodged  in  the  town  jail.  The  first  shock 
is  over,  and  he  has  braced  himself  to  face  his  fate,  to  meet 
the  blow.  What  must  be,  must  be — he  is  a  fatalist,  more  or 
less — if  it  is  written,  it  is  written.  Of  course,  he  vvill  do 
what  he  can,  but  the  prosi)ect  looks  gloomy.  He  must  resign 
his  commission,  inform  his  friends,  put  his  affairs  in  order, 
leave  Charlton  Place  in  the  care  of  the  lawyers  and  of  Vera, 
and  fight  for  what  is  dearer  to  him  than  life — his  honor. 
Will  Vera  believe  him  guilty  ?  That  thought  is  the  hardest 
to  bear  of  all. 


IN   THE  DARK  HOUR. 


371 


iverything. 

an  irrele- 

lot  mind  it 

;  Charlton 
ie,  and  go 
le  interest 

badly  for 
5,  growing 
her  death, 
spent  it  in 

Fanshawe 
,  poor  man 
would  not 
eath  upon 
ore  threat- 
,  and  H ar- 
il Ffrench, 

the  after- 

om  alone, 

1   has  yet 

)rm    more 

inot  clear 

ut  for  his 

rst  shock 

,  to  meet 

more  or 

will  do 

ust  resign 

in  order, 

of  Vera, 

is   honor. 

e  hardest 


It  is  a  gusty,  overcast  evening,  almost  the  last  of  the 
month.  A  fire  burns  in  the  grate,  the  last  yellow  glimmer 
of  the  frosty  fall  sunshine  steals  in  and  lights  his  writing-table. 
He  is  busily  writing  letters,  making  the  most  of  the  dying 
daylight,  when  there  is  a  tap  at  the  door. 

"  Come  in,"  he  says,  without  looking  up. 

Some  one  comes  in,  and  stands  silent,  some  of  the  hotel 
people,  of  course. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  he  asks,  without  turning  round. 

There  is  a  rustle  of  woman's  garments.  He  turns  (juickly  ; 
a  long,  black,  vailed  figme  stands  before  him — a  ghost  in 
crape  and  bombazine.  But  desi)itv'^  the  heavy  crape  vail  he 
knows  her. 

"  Vera  ! "  he  says,  and  rises  in  vast  amaze. 

She  throws  back  her  vail  and  lays  hold  of  the  table  as  if 
she  needed  support.  She  is  paler  than  he  has  ever  seen  her 
— pale  to  the  lips — and  her  eyes  shrink  and  fall  before  his. 

"  Sit  down,"  he  says,  and  places  a  chair ;  *'  how  ill  you 
look  1     You  are  not  fit  to  stand." 

She  stands,  however,  and  makes  a  motion  to  speak.  Slie 
is  greatly,  strongly  agitated,  that  he  can  see.  Once,  twice, 
she  essays  before  the  words  will  come. 

"  I  have  heard — that  you  are — suspected  of — of  what  has 
been  done.     I  have  come  to  say  that — that  I  am  sorry." 

It  is  with  the  utmogt  ditiiculty  she  says  this  much.  Some 
inward  feeling  moves  her  profoundly.  liut  his  whole  face 
lights. 

"  Thank  Heaven  !  "  he  says  ;  "  it  is  like  you.  You  do 
not  believe  it — you  will  not  believe  it  ?  say  that." 

"I  do  not  —  1  will  not — 1  never  can." 

"  Thank  Heaven  !  "  he  says,  deeply  moved  ;  "  it  is  like  you 
— it  is  like  you  !  I  do  not  care  half  so  much  now.  I  am  inno- 
cent, Vera,  need  I  say  it  ?  When  I  left  you  I  went  straight  to 
the  sunnner-house — I  was  nearer  you  there  than  elsewhere. 
It  was  for  the  last  time,  and  I  stayed.     Believe  me  guiltless, 


372 


IN  THE   DARK  HOUR. 


,i,ili    ' 


and  it  will  matter  little  who  believes  ine  guilty.  Men  have 
suffered  unjustly  before — I  can  bear  it  as  well  as  they." 

She  makes  a  second  effort,  greater  than  the  first.  He 
wonders  what  it  is  she  is  going  to  say. 

"  1    want    to    tell    you — I   have  come    to  tell    you — that 

if "  a  pause,   "  that  if  the  announcement  of  our  marriage 

will  help  you,  1  will  announce  it.  I — 1  will  stay  with  you — 
I  will  be  your  wife." 

The  last  word  is  a  positive  gasp.  No  words  can  tell  the 
effort  it  costs  her  to  say  this.  She  turns  from  him  as  she 
does  say  it,  and  walks  suddenly  to  one  of  the  windows.  It  is 
not  alone  the  offer  itself,  hard  as  it  is  to  make — it  is  the  con- 
struction he  may  put  upon  it.  As  the  sister  of  the  rich  Mrs. 
Fanshawe,  only  a  week  ago  she  rejected  with  scorn  and 
pride  the  offer  of  being  his  wife.  As  the  impoverished  sis- 
ter of  the  dead  Mrs.  Fanshawe  sh<?  comes  to  him — the  heir 
— and  renews  the  offer  herself.  How  hard  .she  has  found  it 
to  come — to  say  this — only  Vera's  proud  and  sensitive  heart 
can  ever  know.  Let  him  misunderstand,  if  he  will — it  is  all 
a  misunderstanding  from  tirst  to  last.  She  will  make  it  if 
she  dies  in  the  effort  to  say  the  words.  But  he  does  not 
misunderstand,  he  is  unutterably  touched — moved  to  the 
very  depths  of  his  soul. 

"  What  shall  1  say  ?  "  he  answers,  brokenly.  **  I  cannot 
thank  you,  I  have  no  words.  It  is  like  you — I  say  that 
again — to  come  to  me  in  the  darkest  hour  of  my  life,  and 
offer  me  the  sacrifice  of  yours.  But  I  cannot  accept  it. 
The  name  I  give  you  must  be  a  clean  one,  the  hand  I 
offer  free  from  all  suspicion  of  crime.  I  would,  indeed, 
be  a  dastard  if  I  accepted  your  heroism  to  help  myself.  I 
would  not  accept  it  if  it  could  help  me — but  it  cannot. 
Nothing  now  but  the  discovery  of  the  real  criminal  can 
do  that.  For  all  the  world  I  would  not  have  it  known 
that  you  are  my  wife  now — the  wife  of  a  suspected  thief. 
No,  Vera,   I    love  you  with  all  my  heart — a  hundred  fold 


IN   THE  DARK  HOUR. 


373 


len  have 

It'V." 

list.     He 


^011 — that 

marriage 

ith  you — 

n  tell  the 
in  as  she 
vvs.  It  is 
s  the  con- 
rich  Mrs. 
corn  and 
ished  sis- 
— the  heir 
s  found  it 
tive  heart 
, — it  is  all 
ake  it  if 
does  not 
J   to  the 

cannot 
say  that 
life,  and 
:cei>t    it. 

hand  I 

indeed, 
^self.     I 

cannot. 
|nal  can 
known 
td   thief. 

red  fold 


/ 


better  in  this  hour  than  ever  before.  And  for  that  very 
loves  sake  I  say  no.  If  the  day  ever  conies  when  I  stand 
clear  and  free,  I  will  go  to  you  then,  and " 

lUit  she  turns  fron»  the  window  as  hastily  as  she  has  turned 
to  it,  and  pulls  her  vail  once  more  over  her  face. 

"  Say  no  more  !  "  she  exclaims  ;   *'  let   me  go  !     It   is  so 

warm  here — I  am  faint "     'The  words  die  away,  but  she 

rallies  in  a  moment,  and  pushes  aside  the  hand  he  holds  out. 
*'  1  am  better — let  me  go  !  " 

Something  in  her  strained,  unnatural  tone  checks  the 
words  he  would  S[)eak.  He  goes  down  with  her  to  the  door, 
where  Johnny  and  the  phaeton  wait.  He  helps  her  in,  but 
she  seems  to  shrink  from  his  touch. 

'*  Good  by,"  she  says.  "  Drive  fast,  Johnny — it  is  nearly 
dark." 

*'  Not  good-by,"  he  answers,  cheerily  ;  "  good-night.  I 
will  see  you  early  to-morrow.      I  have  much  to  say." 

"  Drive  fast,  Johnny,"  is  her  sole  reply. 

She  shivers,  and  draws  her  wrai)  closer  about  her.  How 
dark  it  grows,  how  windy  it  is,  how  deathly  chill  1 

He  stands  in  the  doorway  until  she  is  out  of  siglit,  then 
slowly  and  thoughtfully  returns  to  his  work  with  a  new,  glad 
hope  stirring  witliin  him  that  all  his  gloomy  prospects  cannot 
darken.  And  Veri  is  driven  rapidly  home  through  the  gusty 
gloaming,  and  ascends  to  her  room.  How  still  the  house  is, 
how  empty,  how  lonely  !  How  empty  is  the  whole  world  ! 
Every  one  seems  to  have  died  with  Dot — life  has  come  to  an 
end.  It  is  like  a  tomb — like  the  vault  where  they  have  laid 
her,  these  echoing,  unoccupied  rooms.  Is  it  a  sin  to  wish 
she  were  dead,  too  ?  What  in  all  the  weary  world  is  there 
left  to  live  for  ?  She  is  tired  out,  her  head  aclies — or  is  it 
her  heart  ? — she  feels  numb  and  stricken,  lost,  forsaken,  and 
full  of  pain.  '•  Oh,  me  !  oh,  me  !  "  she  says,  pitifully,  and 
lays  her  folded  arms  down  on  the  table,  and  her  face  upon 
them,  with  a  long,  sobbing  sigh. 


374 


TRACKED. 


The  wind  cries  like  a  banshee  about  the  gables,  the  trees 
rattle  stripped,  bleak  arms,  the  ni^ht  falls  cold  and  starless. 
And  still  Vera  lies  there  long  after  the  last  light  has  faded, 
her  head  on  her  arms,  as  if  she  never  cared  to  lift  it  again. 


CHAPTRR   XIV. 


TRACKED. 


!      S 


r  is  not  quite  ten  the  following  morning  when  Colo- 
nel I'Treiich  presents  himself  at  Charlton,  Har- 
riet is  the  first  person  he  encounters,  and  Harriet 
is  struck  by  the  bright  eagerness  of  his  Hice,  the  happy  glad- 
ness of  his  smile.  He  is  more  like  the  Captain  Dick  of  six 
years  ago  than  she  has  seen  him  yet,  but  for  some  reason  the 
change  strikes  her  as  out  of  place,  and  she  frowns  it  down 
resentfully. 

"  Where  is  Miss  Vera?"  he  asks.  "Just  tell  her  I  am 
here,  Harriet,  will  you,  and  i)articularly  desire  to  see  her." 

Harriet's  brow  lowers  a  little  more,  and  she  does  not  stir. 
He  looks  at  her  in  surprise. 

"  Is  she  not  up  ?  "  he  asks. 

Harriet  does  n3t  answer. 

"  Surely,"  he  says,  and  comes  suddenly  nearer,  "  surely  she 
is  not  ill  ?" 

Still  Miss  Hart  maintains  gloomy  silence.  In  real  alarm 
he  speaks  for  the  third  time. 

'*  For  Heaven's  sake,  Harriet,  what  is  the  matter  ?  Why 
don't  you  speak  ?  ,  I  wish  to  see  my — my  wife.  Where  is 
she?" 

Harriet's  sealed  lips  slowly  and  grimly  unclose.     She  may 


gSE 


TRACKED. 


375 


the  trees 
I  starless, 
las  faded, 
t  again. 


hen  Colo- 
on.  H  ar- 
id Harriet 
appy  glad- 
)ick  of  six 
reason  the 
s  it  down 

ler   I    am 
iee  her." 
;s  not  stir. 


surely  she 

•eal  alarm 

ir  ?     Why 
Where  is 

She  may 


answer  now — her  dismal  reticence  has  effectually  banished  all 
the  buoyancy  from  her  visitor's  look  and  manner. 

"Ay,"  she  says,  *'  where  is  she?  that  is  what  I  would  like 
to  know.  Your  wife  !  You've  come  to  it  at  last,  have  you  ? 
It's  time,  too,  after  six  years." 

*'  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean  that  Miss  Vera's  gone — ^one — went  away  this 
morning  at  half-past  six.  Johnny  drove  her  to  the  station, 
and  where  she's  went,  or  what  she's  goin'  to  do,  the  Lord 
knows,  I  don't." 

He  falls  back  a  step — the  surprise,  the  blow,  literally  hold 
him  dumb. 

'*  She's  left  a'most  all  her  things — her  fine  dresses,  heaps 
and  heaps  of  'em  upstairs,  and  took  nothin'  but  her  mourn- 
in'.  All  her  jewels  and  that  she  sent  to  the  bank  yesterday. 
One  trunk's  all  she's  fetched,  and  not  the  biggest  nuther. 
You  needn't  ask  me  questions — I  don't  know  nuthin'.  She's 
gone  up  to  York  first — she's  friends  there,  I  reckon — more'n 
she's  got  here,  from  all  I  can  see." 

Harriet  shoots  this  Parthian  shaft  at  the  culprit,  standing 
pale,  and  startled,  and  silent  before  her,  with  a  baleful  glance. 
It  is  not  that  she  likes  Captain  Dick  less,  but  that  she  likes 
Miss  Vera  more. 

"She's  going  to  look  for  work  when  she  gets  settled  in  her 
mind,"  she  goes  on  ;  "  that's  all  I  know,  if  you  was  to  stand 
starin'  at  me  there  till  crack  o'  doom.  She  went  to  see  you 
yes'day  afternoon — if  you'd  care  to  know,  you'd  orter  asked 
her  then.  She'd  no  money,  as  you  might  a-knowed,  now 
her  sister's  gone,  poor  thing,  AwiS yoiive  got  all.  I  never  did 
think  much  o'  men  folk,  at  no  time,"  said  Harriet,  bitterly ; 
"and  the  more  I  see,  the  less  1  think." 

With  which  she  goes.  Nothing  more  is  to  be  got  from  her  j 
no  note,  no  message  has  been  left.  He  hunts  up  Johnny, 
who  corroborates  the  housekeeper's  story.  He  has  driven 
Miss  Vera  to  the  station,  and  seen  her  on  board   the   train, 


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TRACKED. 


her  trunk  checked,  and  the  ticket  taken  for  New  York.  Be- 
yond that  he  has  nothing  to  tell. 

The  difiference  half  an  hour  can  make  in  a  life  !  Colonel 
Ffrench  walked  over  the  road  to  Charlton,  every  pulse  beat- 
ing high  with  hope  and  expectation,  full  of  intense  longing  to 
see  Vera  again — he  walks  over  the  road  from  Charlton  full 
of  consternation,  regret,  keen  disa[)pointuient,  and  dread. 
Has  his  refusal  to  accept  her  offer,  her  generous  sacrifice  yes- 
terday, given  her  offense  ?  Has  she  again  misunderstood 
him  ?  Has  she  thought — good  Heaven  !  can  she  think  he 
does  not  want  her?  VVlierecan  she  have  gone  ?  What  does 
she  mean  to  do  ?  Work  for  her  living  ?  The  thought  is  a 
blank  terror  to  him.  He  has  not  the  fliintest  idea  as  to  who 
her  friends  in  New  York  may  be,  or  where  he  must  look  for 
her.  Look  for  her,  of  course  he  must,  if  he  is  not  arrested 
before  he  can  do  it.  He  strides  over  the  ground  full  of  pas- 
sionate impatience  and  wrath  with  himself.  What  a  stupid 
blunderer  he  is  to  have  let  her  go  as  he  did  last  evening,  to 
have  refused  her  noble  offer  in  that  abrupt  way — the  offer 
that  it  cost  her  so  much  to  make.  He  has  taken  it  for  granted 
that  she  would  continue  on  at  Charlton — the  idea  of  her 
leaving,  of  her  working,  is  an  idea  that  has  never  once 
occurred  to  him.  Of  course,  she  must  be  found,  and  at  once  ; 
it  will  not  be  a  difficult  matter  to  trace  her  in  the  city. 

He  is  close  upon  the  hotel,  when  a  man,  a  stranger,  a 
short,  commonplace-looking  person,  steps  up  to  him  and 
touches  his  hat. 

'*  Ask  pardon — Colonel  Ffrench,  if  I  ain't  mistaken?" 

•'  That  is  my  name." 

*'  Thanky.  Could  I  have  a  few  minutes'  private  conversa- 
tion with  you,  colonel  ?  It's  important,  and  1  shan't  keep 
you  long," 

'*  My  good  fellow,  no — not  at  present.  I  am  in  the  dense 
and  all  of  a  hurry.  Come  this  afternoon — say  at  three.  1 
cannot  stop  now." 


TRACKED. 


Z77 


Be- 


II 


and 


■  Ask  pardon,  but  it's  your  own  business,  colonel — least- 
wise, it's  both  our  business  at  present.  It's  about  this  here 
little  job  over  at  Charlton." 

Colonel  Ffrench  stops  and  stares  at  him. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  he  demands. 

"  Detective  Daggit,  of  New  York  ;  down  here  on  my  own 
hook,  a.id  a  purpose  to  get  at  the  bottom  of  this  here  affair. 
I've  a  word  or  two  I'd  particularly  like  to  say,  if  so  be  you're 
as  much  interested  in  this  matter  as  n)ost  folks  would  be  in 
your  place." 

'•  Come  with  me,"  says  Colonel  Ffrench,  and  leads  the  way 
to  his  room.  Here  he  points  out  a  chair  to  his  visitor,  and 
seats  himself  squarely  in  front  of  him. 

"  Now,  then,  Detective  Daggit,  what  is  it  you  have  to  say  ?  " 

"Thanky,  colonel,"  says  polite  Mr.  Daggit,  wiping  his 
already  very  dry  mouth  with  his  hand  :  "  first  of  all  there's  a 
reward  out — offered  by  you — for  the  ajjprehenhion  of  the 
Charlton  burglar.     A  handsome  sum— five  thousand  dollars." 

Colonel  Ffrench  nods. 

"  Very  well — 1  luean  to  earn  that  money,  and  I  don't  think 
it's  goin'  to  be  sech  a  tough  job  nuther.  I've  been  emj^loyed 
by  the  late  lamented  party  this  some  time  back  to  keej)  an 
eye  on  her  husband— a  very  nice  gentlenian,  indeed,  but  a  lit- 
tle wild  or  so,  about  ladies  and  such ;  and  when  it  came  out 
about  this  here  robbery,  I  tackled  the  job  at  once.  Now, 
colonel,  there's  them  as  suspect  _>'^w— ask  pardon — but  it's 
like  folks  to  do  it.  You  being  next  heir  and  that,  and  if  you 
attempt  to  leave  this  here  little  town  you'll  be  arrested— ask 
pardon — it  ain't  a  pleasant  thing  to  say,  but  you  will." 

"  I  know  it,"  Colonel  Ffrench  says,  sententiously. 

"  Then  what  you'd  better  do,  colonel,  is  to  lay  by  here  a 
bit  and  wait,  and  hand  the  matter  over  to  me.  I've  ferreted 
out  gentlemen  of  this  kidney  before,  and  I'll  do  it  again,  or 
my  name's  not  Daggit.  I'll  lay  you  a  fifty  that  I  have  this 
fellow  safely  under  my  thumb  before  another  fortnight." 


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378 


TRACKED. 


Colonel  Ffrench  looks  at  him  keenly. 

"  You  suspect '  he  begins. 

"  Never  mind  who  I  suspect  just  now.  I'll  make  my  sus- 
picions sure  before  I  name  names.  Just 'answer  me  a  few 
questions  first,  then  I'll  take  myself  off." 

He  pulls  out  a  note-book  and  pencil,  and  proceeds  to  pro- 
pound sundry  questions.  They  have  little  bearing  on  the 
case  in  hand,  so  far  as  Colonel  Ffrench  can  see,  but  he  an- 
swers them.  Afr.  Daggit  is  rising  to  go  when  a  visitor  is  an- 
nounced. He  enters  and  proves  to  be  Daddy.  Instantly 
Mr.  Daggit's  bright  eyes  bore  two  holes  through  him. 

"I've  been  to  Shaddeck  Light,  Cap'n  Dick,"  says  the 
softy,  shifting  from  one  foot  to  the  other  in  his  usual  way. 
*'  I  was  here  last  evenin'  to  see  you,  but  you  was  eout. 
Somebody's  been  a  stop|)in'  at  Shaddeck,  and  forgot  suthin', 
and  1  fetched  it  right  along  to  you." 

He  produces,  after  much  fumbling,  a  little  flat  package, 
wrajjped  in  a  piece  of  newspaper.  Detective  Daggit  waits 
and  watches  with  keen  professional  interest. 

"  Why  do  you  bring  it  to  me  ?  "  asks  Colonel  Ffrench. 

Daddy  does  not  know  why ;  he  shifts  from  foot  to  foot, 
and  gapes  vacantly  at  the  ceiling.  He  found  'em  and  he 
brought  'em  ;  he  don't  know  why  ;  they  might  belong  to 
Cap'n  Dick,  mebbe — nobody  else  gees  thar.  He  found  'em 
yes'day  ;  the  pieces  o'  paper  blowed  inter  the  rocks,  the  pic- 
ter  on  the  floor  of  Cap'n  Dick's  room.  Thought  they  might 
be  his'n'  and  so — he  stops.  Colonel  Ffrench  has  uttered  a 
sharp  exclamation  of  surprise. 

"  Miss  Charlton  !  "  he  exclaims. 

He  has  opened  the  flat  package,  and  finds  a  card  photo- 
grai)h  and  two  or  three  scraps  of  a  letter.  It  is  the  photo- 
graph of  a  lady  ;  it  is  the  face  of  P^leanor  Charlton.  Detec- 
tive Daggit  pounces  upon  it,  and  looks  at  it  over  his  shoulder. 

"An  uncommon  good-looking  young  woman,"  he  says. 
"  Ask  pardon,  but  you  know  her,  colonel  ?" 


TRACKED. 


379 


"  Know  her?     Yes,"  Colonel  French  answers  dreamily. 

Eleanor  Charlton's  picture  and  true !  He  looks  at  it 
again  ;  she  has  changed  ;  the  hair  is  dressed  differently,  she 
looks  older,  graver,  more  careworn,  he  fancies,  than  as  he 
remembers  her.  He  looks  at  the  back  ;  there  is  the  photo- 
grapher's name  and  the  place— New  Orleans — and  a  date  in 
pencil. 

"Why,  it  was  only  taken  two  months  ago,"  he  says,  in 
surprise. 

He  looks  at  the  torn  scraps  of  writing ;  they  have  been 
wet,  and  are  blotted.  They  are  fragments  of  a  letter,  but 
contain  little  that  is  legible.  There  is  a  name,  however,  on 
one  :     **  Yours  ever — yours  always — Ernfcst.'" 

"Jest  step  back,  young  man,"  says  Detective  Daggit,  brisk- 
ly, to  Daddy;  "you're  a  treasure,  my  lad,  that's  what  you 
are.  Now,  Colonel  Ffrench — ask  pardon  for  bothering  you 
in  this  way,  but  I  must  ask  a  few  more  questions.  Tell  me 
all  you  know  about  this  here  pretty  young  lady.  It's  the  clew 
I've  wanted,  as  sure  as  I'm  Dago;it." 

Colonel  Ffrench  tells  hiui.  How  Eleanor  Charlton  came 
from  New  Orleans  six  year.^  before,  and  remained  a  few 
weeks  with  her  mother.  This  i>hotograph  does  not  belong  to 
him  ;  he  has  never  seen  her,  nor  heard  of  her  for  the  past 
four  years.  Then  she  was  in  Europe,  traveling  with  a  lady. 
It  is  not  much  he  has  to  tell,  but  ]V[r.  Daggit  asks  a  number 
of  adroit  questions,  again  apparently  wide  of  the  mark.  Now 
and  then  Mr.Fanshawe's  name  crops  up,  but  in  an  off-hand 
sort  of  way.  At  length  he  rises,  satisfied,  and  puts  up  his 
book. 

"I'll  take  that  picter,  and  these  pieces  of  paper,"  he  says, 
"and  I'll  go  with  you,  young  man,  to  Shaddeck  Light,  and 
have  a  look  arountl.  I've  no  doubt,  from  what  you  say,  the 
burglar  took  a  walk  there  after  he'd  done  the  job,  and  kept 
dark  there  all  next  day.  He's  dro[)ped  the  picter  in 
pulling  out  his  handkerchief  or  watch,  and  he's  tore  up  the 


^ 


11^ 

r^ 

:' 

■  ■  f' 

j' 

i      ■, 

'.' 

li  ;■' 

'1 

i        ;■ 

'    1. 

rl     - 


I  ♦'» 


380 


TRACKED. 


letter,  and  the  wind's  blowed  these  scraps  back.  That's 
how." 

'*  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  connect  the  finding  of  this 
pliotograph  in  any  way  with " 

"Yes,  1  do.  I'll  not  tell  you  why,  so  you  needn't  ask.  It 
isn't  goin'  to  be  a  hard  job — not  half  so  tough  as  if  a  profes- 
sional cracksman  was  in  it.  Lord  !  these  amateurs  are  trip[)ed 
up  as  easy  as  nothin'  at  all.  Good-day,  colonel ;  jest  you  keep 
(piiet  here  until  you  hear  from  me  again.  I'm  oft'  this  after- 
noon, but  before  I  go,  I'll  drop  a  hint  in  a  quarter  I  know  of, 
and  there  won't  be  any  warrant  got  out.  I've  my  eye  on  the 
right  man,  and  I'll  have  my  hand  on  him  before  you're  two 
weeks  older.  And  once  I've  got  him,"  cries  Detective  Dag- 
git,  his  light  eyes  flashing  out,  his  wiry  fists  clenching,  "  I'll 

hold  him  while  he  has  a  body  to  kick  or  a  soul  to  d ! 

Now,  Daddy — rum  name.  Daddy — let's  go  and  get  a  boat." 

So  Detective  Daggit  departs,  and  goes  to  work  with  a  will. 
He  visits  Shaddeck  Light,  and  inspects  every  cranny  and 
corner.  He  visits  Charlton  Place,  and  investigates  the  late 
Mrs.  Fanshawe's  bedroom  minutely.  He  even  spends  half 
an  hour  in  Mr.  P'anshawe's  apartments.  His  face  beams  as 
he  bids  Harriet  good-day  and  receives  her  parting  glare  as  a 
benediction. 

Colonel  Ffrench,  remaining  behind  with  what  patience  he 
may,  is  compelled  perforce  to  give  up  the  pursuit  of  Vera. 
But  a  week  or  two  can  make  little  matter  ;  she  will  not  leave 
New  York  so  soon.  Even  if  he  found  her,  as  things  stand, 
what  is  there  he  can  say  that  she  will  listen  to  ?  His  hands 
and  tongue  are  tied  until  the  Charlton  criminal  is  discovered. 
He  will  wait  as  i)atiently  as  may  be,  and  trust  in  Providence 
and  Detective  Daggit. 

The  first  week  brings  him  a  note.  D.  D.  is  on  the  track  ; 
his  bird  is  in  New  York  ;  he  has  caught  him  sure,  but  doesn't 
mean  to  lay  hands  on  him  just  yet.  He  is  going  South — to 
New  Orleans  ;  D.  D.  means  to  go,  too. 


TRACKED. 


381 


U    I' 


I'll 


Colonel  Ffrench  waits  in  feverish  impatience  for  a  second 
dispatch.  The  restraint,  the  surprise  are  unencUirable.  His 
longing  to  see  Vera  is  becoming  more  than  he  can  bear. 
People  still  whisper,  but  not  so  UkuU}'  ;  it  is  understood  that 
the  real  burglar  is  found,  or  on  the  eve  of  being  found,  and 
that  the  Cuban  Colonel  is  simply  wailing  here  until  that  dis- 
covery can  be  officially  announced.  The  close  of  the  second 
week — the  middle  of  the  third  conies,  and  brings  no  letter. 
It  does  better,  however ;  it  brings  Detective  Daggit  himself, 
tired,  travel-stained,  dusty,  but  triumphant. 

"  I  only  waited  a  nnnute  to  order  up  a  nip  of  brandy  in  the 
bar  "  he  says.  "  You  expected  a  letter,  didn't  you  ?  I  didn't 
write — writin'  never  does  no  good — I  came.  I've  got  my 
man,  as  safe,  and  sure,  and  sound  as  I've  got  this  /" 

He  lays  hold  of  the  brandy  and  water  brought  by  the 
attendant,  and  tosses  it  off  exultingly.  Colonel  Ffrench 
leans  forward  pale  with  excitement,  and  waits. 

"  'Twas  him — the  one  I  had  my  eye  on  from  the  first. 
Oil  !  he's  a  precious  lot,  he  is  !  When  he  left  the  house  with 
the  jewels,  he  took  the  shore  road,  and  walked  out  to  the 
rum  little  shanty  you  call  Shaddeck  Light.  There  he  stayed  in 
hiding  all  next  day,  and  there  he  dropped  the  picter  and  tore 
up  the  letter.  His  given  name's  Ernest — sweet,  pretty  name 
for  a  burglar,  ain't  it  ?  At  dark  he  crosses  to  land,  walks  to 
St.  Ann's,  takes  the  tirst  boat  he  finds  (one  was  picked  up 
adrift  a  day  or  two  after,  you  remember),  and  rows  himself  to 
Green [)ort.  There  he  got  aboard  the  cars,  and  went  to  New 
York.  He  stayed  there  a  day,  hid  the  epoils,  and  came 
straight  back." 

"  Back  ! " 

"  Straight  back — straight  as  a  die — to  this  place.  Was  at 
the  funeral,  and  everything,  as  large  as  life.  The  morning 
after  the  funeral  he  left  again,  this  time  for  good,  taking  all 
his  traps  with  him — a  cozy  lot.  No,  don't  ask  questions — > 
wait  awhile.     He  went  up  to  New  York,  and  the  first  thing 


<*;.' 


^i 


* 


r 


I  f 


:|| 


'I   -I 


11 


til     5^1 

m  v!  • 


li  I' 


'ia>l 


382 


TRACKED. 


he  did  was  to  shave  off  his  whiskers — splendid  whiskers — all 
the  ladies  loved  'em  !  'Twas  an  iincomnion  pity,  but  they 
had  to  go.  I  was  there  at  the  time,  havin'  my  hair  cut,  and 
1  got  a  lock.  1  reckon  when  the  trial  comes  on,  'twill  fit 
that  other  little  lock  the  coroner  has.     Then  he  went  South." 

Mr.  Daggit  is  thirsty,  and  takes  another  pull  at  the  brandy 
and  water.     Colonel  Ffrench  waits,  silently  but  excitedly. 

"There  he  sold  some  of  the  jewels — taking  them  out  of 
the  setting,  of  course — some  in  lialtimore,  some  in  Washing- 
ton, and  so  on  until  he  got  to  New  Orleans.  Then  he  went 
to  see  the  young  lady — Miss  Charlton.  Shu's  princii)al  of  a 
school  there,  very  high-toned,  and  fashionable,  and  all  that. 
There,  too,  he  changed  his  name.  What  does  he  call  him- 
self?    Why,  Mr.  Ernest  Dane." 

Ernest  Dane  !  Colonel  Ffrench  knits  his  brows.  Ernest 
Dane  !     Where  has  he  heard  that  name  before  ? 

"  Sounds  familiar,  does  it  ?  Well,  it  seems  he's  a  very  old 
lover  of  this  Miss  Charlton — been  keepin' company  for  seven 
years,  and  in  a  few  weeks  they're  to  be  married.  There  he 
is  still,  and  theie  he'll  stay  until  we  get  back,  for  I  want  you 
to  come  with  me  this  time.  You'll  like  to  be  in  at  the  death, 
besides  being  a  friend  of  the  young  lady's,  and  being  on  the 
spot  to  break  it  to  her  easy.  He's  all  safe — no  fear  of  that 
— watched  night  and  day,  and  hasn't  an  idee  any  one  suspects. 
Eord  !  it's  as  neat  a  job  as  ever  was  done,  and  as  easy." 

"But  wlio  is  he  ?  "  Colonel  Ffrench  asks  ;  '*  you  have  not 
told  me  that.  An  old  lover  of  Miss  Charlton's,  and  about 
to  be  married  to  her !  Why,  this  is  horrible  !  Who  is  the 
fellow  ?  " 

"  He  calls  himself  Ernest  Dane  now,  and  I  reckon  it's  his 
name  fast  enough,  though  he  had  another  tacked  to  it  when 
he  was  here.  Who  is  he  ?  "  Detective  Daggit  strikes  the 
table  a  blow  that  makes  the  brandy  and  water  jump.  "  It's 
Mr.  Ernest  Dane  Fanshawe  !  It's  tht  dead  woman's  own 
husband,  by  the  eternal  jingo  !  " 


■■■■I 


TRAPPED, 


383 


CHAPTER  XV. 


TRAPPED. 


N  old-fashioned,  Moorish-looking  mansion,  not  far 
from  the  Rue  des  Ursulines— a  great  wilderness 
o^  garden,  where  all  luxuriant  Southern  flowers 
bloom  and  run  riot  in  their  own  sweet  superabundance  ; 
orange-trees,  magnolas,  golden  rods,  and  roses,  everywhere 
roses.  A  high  wall  shuts  it  in— high  gales  shut  the  world 
out.  It  is  a  young  ladies'  seminary.  Miss  Eleanor  Ciiarlton, 
principal. 

It  is  late  in  the  afternoon  of  a  lovely  October  day.  The 
pensionnat  is  very  still ;  the  young  ladies  are  at  study  ;  the 
jingle  of  two  or  three  pianos  alone  breaks  the  silence.  lx\ 
her  sitting-room  Miss  Charlton  is  alone,  busily  writing.  The 
bowed  head,  the  stately  figure,  the  deep,  sweet,  serious  eyes 
are  those  of  the  Eleanor  Charlton  of  six  and  a  half  years  ago. 
There  is  hardly  any  perceptible  change.  She  hardly  looks 
older  ;  she  certainly  looks  happier.  She  is  dressed  in  black 
silk,  a  touch  of  fine  lace  and  a  knot  of  crimson  silk  at  the 
throat— fair,  and  gracious,  and  good,  and  a  gentlewoman  to 
her  finger-tips.  She  looks  a  strong  and  self-reliant  woman 
sitting  here,  brave  as  well  as  gentle,  sufficient  unto  herself, 
one  who  has,  unaided,  made  a  niche  for  herself  in  the  world, 
and  fits  it  well.  She  has  the  look  of  one  who  need  not  merge 
and  lose  her  own  individuality  in  that  of  any  man.  But  it 
is  not  so.  Despite  her  nine  and  twenty  years,  her  amiable 
self-poise  and  reliance,  her  well-established  and  popular 
school,  Miss  Charlton  is  about  to  go  the  way  of  all  woman- 
kind, gentle  and  simj^le,  learned  and  unlettered,  and  be  mar- 
ried.    It  is  a  very  old  affair ;  more   than  seven  years  have 


mfw^r- 

T          'I 

11 
1 

1 

I  ; 


n 


I  iii^ 


( *  '  * 
[  \ 


■5 

't 
1 

f    ; 

■i 

1 

i. 

ill 

IP^ 

f 

i 

J 

1 

384 


TRAPPED. 


jiassed  since  she  and  F'rncst  Dane  first  met.  He  is  not 
at  all  the  sort  of  a  man  any  one  woulil  imagine  a  woman 
of  Kleanor  Charlton's  stam|) — i-arnest  hearted,  \)ure-souled, 
falling  in  love  with.  In  no  way  is  he  lu-r  eciiial,  in  no  way 
worthy  of  her,  but  the  fact  remains,  she  loves  him.  I'or 
over  six  years  tiicy  have  been  apart.  Fate,  with  a  strong 
hand,  has  held  them  asunder  ;  but  through  it  all,  through 
time,  absence,  silence,  doubt,  she  has  loved  him,  hoped  in 
him,  waited  for  him.  And  at  last.  Fate,  contiuered  by  fidelity, 
has  brought  them  together.  He  has  urged  an  immediate 
marriage,  and  she  has  consented.  In  two  weeks  she  will  be 
his  wife. 

Some  one  taps  at  the  door.  It  is  a  black  boy  with  a 
card.  Miss  Charlton  looks  up  from  her  writing,  and  glances 
at  it.  A  look  of  surprise,  then  of  gladness,  lights  her 
face. 

*'  Colonel  Ffrench  !  "  she  exclaims — "  what  a  pleasant  sur- 
prise. Show  the  gentleman  into  the  reception-room,  and 
tell  him  I  will  be  there  in  a  moment." 

She  rises,  and  with  the  womanly  instinct  that  never  fails, 
goes  first  to  the  glass.  But  the  shining  coils  of  silken  chest- 
nut hair  are  smooth  ;  lace,  bow,  cuffs,  all  are  in  order  ;  so 
she  shakes  out  her  dark  skirts  and  goes  to  meet  her  guest. 
She  has  never  seen  him,  and  but  very  indirectly  heard  of 
him,  since  that  long  past  summer.  It  is  with  very  genuine 
pleasure  she  goes  to  meet  him  now. 

He  rises  at  her  entrance.  How  distinguished,  how  fine- 
looking,  how  soldierly  he  is  !  is  her  first,  instinctive,  feminine 
thought — and  yet  so  exceedingly  like  the  Captain  Dick  of 
old.  She  comes  forward  and  holds  out  her  hand,  with  the 
smile  he  remembers. 

"  Colonel  Ffrench  !  How  very,  very  glad  I  am  !  What 
a  great  and  delightful  surprise  !  " 

He  does  not  answer,  although  in  look  and  warm  hand- 
pressure  his  greeting  is  cordial  enough.     But — it  is  a  curious 


3  IS   not 

woman 

2-soule(l, 

no  way 

in.      I'or 

a  stroni' 

through 

lopcd  in 

'  fideHty, 

iniediat? 

e  will  be 

'  with  a 

glances 

;hts   her 

5ant  sur- 
)m,  and 

/er  fails, 
n  chest- 
der  ;  so 
r  guest, 
iiard  of 
genuine 

)w  fine- 
eminine 
Dick  of 
ath  the 

What 

n  hand- 
curious 


TRAPPED.  385 

fancy— he    absolutely   looks  embarrassed    as    they  both    sit 
down. 

"I  scarcely  dared  hope,"  she  says,  «« we  would  ever  »nect 
again.  What  a  wanderer  you  have  become — now  in  Ceiitial 
America— now  in  Cuba— now  in  i^urope.  And  such  a 
Taladin,  too!  I  have  heard  it  all,  you  see.  It  agrees  with 
you,  I  think,  the  wandering  and  the  fighting.  You  are  look- 
ing wonderfully  well." 

"That  is  a  compliment  I  can  honestly  return.  Do  you 
know  where  I  came  from  last  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  answers,  and  her  tone  is  grave  and  sad.  "  I 
saw  it  all  in  the  papers.  You  were  at  Charlton  when  poor 
Dora  Lightwood  died.  Poor,  bright  little  Dora  !  Has  the 
burglar  yet  been  found  ?  " 

He  looks  at  her  gravely,  with  something,  oddly  enough, 
like  compassion  in  the  gray  darkness  of  his  eyes. 

"  Yes,"  he  says,  "  I  believe  he  has." 

That  odd  look  makes  her  regard  him  questioningly;  but 
he  says  no  name.     There  is  a  pause. 

"  And  Vera  ?  "  she  says,  with  some  hesitation—"  how  does 
she  bear  it  ?" 

"  I  can  hardly  answer  that  question,"  he  responds  slow- 
ly. "  Vera  has  left  Charlton,  and  is  at  present,  I  believe, 
with  some  friends  in  New  York.  Naturally,  it  has  been 
a  terrible  blow  to  her;  no  sisters  ever  were  more  at- 
tached." 

"  Dear  little  Vera  !  what  a  bright,  joyous,  frank  little  fairy 
she  was  !  She  has  become  a  brilliant  society  belle  since,  I 
have  heard;  but  under  it  all,  I  am  sure,  the  same  true, 
brave  heart  beats.  I  should  like,  I  should  greatly  like,  to 
see  her." 

"  I  think  I  may  promise  that  much  in  Vera's  name,"  he 
says  ;  "  she  will  come  to  see  you  soon." 

That  fleeting  look,  as  if  of  pity  for  her,  is  in  his  eyes  again. 
What  does  it  mean  ?— or  is  it  only  her  fancy  ?  She  takes 
17 


f*' 


386 


TRArPF.n. 


11 


1 .1    :  . 


!.>;:! 


¥M 


r 

i  i  ^ 

''  :HlHil 

.  ?! 

i- 

|; 

ji'^rae 

f;  > 

9w^ 

V . 

,"  t'-  ' 

'  ^^^^i'' 

\' 

-  Wl^ 

luT  courage  in  both  hands,  and  h)()ks  at  him,  a  smile  in  the 
fawn  eyes,  a  flush  on  the  dcHcate  cheek. 

"Colonel  I'Trench,  do  tell  me — 1  am  dying  to  know — are 
you  really  married  to  Vera  ?  " 

*'  I  am  married  to  Vera,  and  have  been  for  over  six 
years." 

Here  is  silence.  The  wistful,  hazel  eyes  linger  on  his 
face,  and  ask  the  questions  her  lips  cannot  frame. 

*'  All  that  is  too  long  a  story  for  to-day,"  he  says,  with  a 
smile.  "  Vera  shall  fell  you  everything  when  you  meet. 
Now  let  me  ask  a  quesiion  in  turn,  and  do  not  think  me  im- 
pertinent.     Vou  are  about  to  be  married  ?  " 

"Yes,"  she  answers,  frankly,  but  flushing. 

"To  Mr.  Ernest  Dane?" 

"  To  Ernest  Dane.    Do  you  know  him.  Colonel  Ffrench  ?  " 

"  I — think  so.  I  am  not  sure.  1  fancy  it  was  he  who 
called  upon  me  once  at"  Shaddeck  Light,  the  very  afternoon 
of  your  arrival  at  Charlton.  He  was  at  St.  Ann's  that  week, 
was  he  not  ?  " 

"Yes,"  she  answers,  embarrassed;  "  he  was  there.  But 
it  is  curious  he  has  never  spoken  of  knowing  ^(??/.  I  was  en- 
gaged to  him  even  then,"  she  says,  in  a  very  low  voice. 

She  is  thinking,  and  so,  perhaps,  is  he,  that  but  for  that 
engagement  she  might  long  ago  have  been  Richard  Ffrench's 
wife. 

"  We  were  poor,"  she  goes  on,  simi)ly  ;  "  he  did  not  seem 
to  succeed  very  well  at  that  time,  and  my  poor  mother  was 
greatly  opposed  to  him.  So  our  engagement  was  a  strict 
secret.  He  visited  me  once — one  evening  at  Charlton,  and 
from  that  night  until  a  fortnight  ago  we  never  met.  He  has 
been  in  business  out  West,  and  working  hard,  poor  fellow. 
I  have  been,  as  you  may  have  heard,  traveling  with  an  invalid 
lady  pretty  nearly  all  over  Europe.  It  is  owing  to  her  gen- 
erous liberality  that  this  place  and  this  school  are  mine — 
that  I  am,  I  hope,  securely  established  for  life.     At  intervals 


lile  in  the 

now — are 

over  six 

?r  on  his 

I's,  with  a 
ou  meet, 
ik  me  im- 


french  ?  " 
;  he  who 
ifternoou 
lat  week, 

;re.     But 

I  wasen- 

)ice. 

t  for  that 

Ffrench's 

not  seem 
)ther  was 
3  a  strict 
Iton,  and 
He  has 
)r  fellow. 
,n  invalid 
her  gen- 
:  mine — 
intervals 


TRAPPED. 


387 


Krnest  and  I  liave  corrcspondi-d,  but  at  lonj:;  intervals  and 
very  irregularly.  Now  he  has  secured,  not  wealth  but  a  com- 
petence, and  he  has  come  to  claim  me.  In  two  weeks  we 
are  to  be  married.  Vou  will  stay  and  be  present,  will  you 
not,  my  friend,  and — if  it  may  be — bring  Vera?" 

liefore  he  can  reply,  the  black  boy  rea[)pears,  and  ushers 
in  a  visitor,  Mr.  Krnest  Dane. 

"  I  am  so  glad  !  "  I'lleanor  says,  rising  quietly,  her  whole 
face  ligining.  *«  Now  you  will  meet.  Ernest,"  she  passes 
Colonel  Ffrench,  and  goes  forward  gladly  to  meet  her  lover, 
"  there  is  a  very  old  friend  here  who  thinks  he  has  met  you 
before.     Colonel  Kfrench,  Mr.  Dane." 

Colonel  Ffrench  rises,  his  dark  brow  bent,  his  gray,  reso- 
lute eyes  stern,  his  lii)s  set,  and  stands  soldierly,  inflexible, 
commanding,  confronting  the  face  he  knows.  But  is  it  the 
man  he  seeks?  the  slayer  of  his  wife,  the  midnight  thief,  the 
cowardly  robber  of  a  woman  ?  Where  are  all  the  long, 
blonde,  Dundreary  whiskers,  and  can  their  loss  alone  make 
such  a  change  in  a  countenance  ?  How  weak  is  that  woman- 
ish face,  now  that  its  hirsute  disguise  is  gone,  and  what  an 
excellent  thing  is  a  beard  to  hide  a  weak  mouth  and  a  fool's 
chin. 

*'  I  was  not  mistaken,"  says  Colonel  Ffrench's  deep  tones. 
"  I  have  met  Mr.  Dane  before." 

Mr.  Dane  is  deadly  pale— is  frightfully  pale.  His  blue 
eyes  shift  and  fall  from  the  strong,  stern,  relentless  gray 
ones — the  irresolute  lips  tremble.  Mr.  Dane  is  horribly 
frightened,  and  shows  it. 

"I — 1  think  not.  I — I  think  there  must  be  some  mis- 
take.    I  have  never  met  Colonel  Ffrench  before." 

"Your  memory  fails,  Mr.  Dane — we  have  met,"  says 
Colonel  Ffrench,  keejnng  his  relentless  gaze  immovably 
fixed  upon  him.  *'  Call  to  mind— if  you  can— an  afternoon, 
over  six  years  ago,  when  you  honored  me  by  a  visit  in  my 
den — Shaddeck  Light." 


388 


TRAPPED. 


M 


A- 


;i'i 


;tl 


V  r' 


Mr.  Dane,  still  white  to  the  lips,  makes  the  effort,  and 
manages  to  recall  it.  But  his  pallor  is  so  great,  his  alarm 
so  apparent,  his  embarrassment  so  intense  and  real,  that 
Eleanor  looks  from  one  to  the  other,  in  sudden  terror  and 
disniay.     Iji,'fore  she  can  speak.  Colonel  Ffrench  rises. 

"I  will  call  to-morrow,"  he  says,  and  once  again  that  pro- 
foundly pitying  look  is  in  his  eyes.  "1  leave  New  Orleans 
in  the  afternoon,  but  I  will  call  and  see  you  b.efore  I  go." 

He  departs.  As  the  street-door  closes  behind  him,  a  man 
looks  out  stealthily  from  behind  some  espaliers. 

"  Well,  colonel,  what  d'ye  think  ?  "  a  voice  asks. 

"  It  is  all  right,  Daggit,  you  have  your  man.  He  will 
give  you  no  trouble.  Y)o  not  approach  him  until  he  is  well 
away  from  the  house.     The  lady  must  not  be  alarmed." 

He  goes,  and  Detective  Daggit  resumes  his  watch.  It  is 
a  long  one.  The  sun  sets,  the  night  falls,  the  moon  rises 
long  before  Mr.  Ernest  Dane  quits  the  house. 

But  he  comes  at  last,  walking  rapidly,  looking  about  him 
nervously,  and  still  startlingly  pale.  Mr.  DagiIi^  follows 
with  the  tread  of  a  cat,  shod  at  once  with  the  shoes  of  silence 
and  swiftness.  A  square  or  two  is  passed,  the  seminary  is 
out  of  sight,  then  at  the  corner  of  a  quiet  street  Detective 
Daggit  lays  his  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  Mr.  Ernest  Dane  ; 
lays  it  so  suddenly,  so  sharply,  with  so  strong  and  steely  a 
clasp,  that  it  extorts  a  cry  from  the  startled  man. 

"None  o'  that,"  says  Mr.  Detective  Daggit;  "it'll  not 
do  a  mite  of  good,  and  will  only  raise  a  crowd,  which  would 
be  unpleasant,  I  should  think,  to  a  gentleman  of  your  hne 
feelin's.  None  o'  that,  either'"  as  Mr.  Dane  instinctively 
strikes  out  to  wrench  himself  free.  "  I'm  the  strongest  man 
of  the  two,  and  if  you  do  do  it,  why  I've  a  seven-shooter 
here,  and  by  the  Lord  above  !  I'll  shoot  you  like  a  mad  dog 
before  you  get  round  the  corner." 

*'  What  do  you  mean  ?  Who  are  yo  •  -*  Why  is  this  out- 
rage?"  demands   Mr.    Ernest  Dane.     The  moonlight,   the 


au. 


It  is 


TRAPPED.  389 

white,  piercing,  brilliant  Southern  moonlight,  is  full  on  his 
face,  and  dead  and  in  his  coffin,  it  will  never  be  whiter. 
His  voice  chokes  and  breaks  as  he  speaks — a  coward  Mr. 
Dane  is,  to  the  depths  of  his  white-livered  soul. 

"  What  do  I  mean  ?  "  repeats  Detective  Daggit ;  "  why, 
I  mean  you're  my  prisoner  ?  Who  am  I  ?  Why,  I'm  De- 
tective Daggit  of  New  York.  Why  is  this  outrage  ?  Why, 
because  you've  robbed  and  killed  your  wife,  and  we're  going 
to  see  what  an  enlightened  jury  of  free-born  fellow-citizens 
will  say  about  it,  Mr.  Ernest  Dane  Fanshawe  !  " 

He  makes  a  sudden  desperate  break  and  frees  himself, 
but,  before  he  has  run  ten  steps,  the  fingers  of  steel  clutch 
his  collar  again,  and  the  cold  muzzle  of  a  revolver  is  at  his 
temple. 

"  You  would,  would  you  ? "  says  Mr.  Detective  Daggit. 
"  You'd  give  me  the  slip  after  all  the  trouble  I've  had  run- 
ning after  you,  would  you  ?  Hi,  there  !  McFarlan  !  "  A 
second  man  appears,  as  if  by  magic.  "  On  with  the  brace- 
lets !  Safe  bind,  safe  find — and  there's  a  little  matter  of  five 
thousand  dollars  at  stake.  Ask  pardon,  Mr.  Fanshawe— 
click  !  that's  on— now  the  other— click  again  !  Lo  !  that's 
what  I  call  lovely  and  comfortable — now  we  can  jog  on  to- 
gether in  peace.  Take  the  other  side,  Mac.  I  hoi)e  you 
don't  find 'em  too  tight,  Mr.  Fanshawe?  I  wouldn't  hurt 
your  wrists  on  any  account." 

Handcuffed,  and  between  his  captors — white  as  death,  he 
walks  on,  livid  terror  on  every  feature  of  his  ghastly  face. 

"Ask  pardon  for  being  so  rude  and  sudden  like,  but 
you'll  have  to  postpone  that  wedding  of  yours  a  few  years, 
Mr.  Ernest  Dane  Fanshawe.  Ain't  it  uncommon  soon,  too 
— only  three  weeks  since  your  first  was  buried  !  It  was 
neatly  done,  Mr.  Fanshawe— wait  a  minute  !  don't  interrupt 
—your  counsel  will  tell  the  jury  all  about  your  innocence 
by  and  by.  You  stole  in  about  the  middle  of  the  night- 
wait  a  minute,  I   say— and  hid   in  a  closet  in  your  wife's 


f 


Mr 

1  ■  ! 


390 


TRAPPED. 


mm 


^\ 


room.  As  soon  as  she  was  asleep  you  stole  out,  pocketed 
the  jewels,  and  in  some  way  woke  her  up.  She  struggled 
with  you — wait  a  minute,  can't  you  ! — tore  off  the  crape, 
pulled  a  handful  from  your  whiskers — beautiful  whiskers, 
Mr.  Fanshawe — I  wonder  at  you  for  shavin'  'em  off.  You 
broke  away,  got  out,  and  made  straight  for  Shaddock  Light. 
You  droi)ped  a  few  little  things  there,  but  riever  mind,  I'll 
let  you  have  the  picture  again  when  sentence  is  passed. 
It'll  be  a  comfort  to  you,  mebbe,  up  in  Sing  Sing  or  Auburn. 
And  you  come  back  for  the  funeral  !  Now  tJuif  s  what  I 
call  showin'  the  highest-toned  sort  of  feelin'  and  respect  for 
the  dead,  and  all  that,  and  very  well  you  looked,  Mr.  Fan- 
shawe, in  your  mournin'  clothes.  And  then  you  come  dowr^i 
here  and  make  love  to  the  school-marm — oh  !  darn  it,  wait 
a  minute  ! — and  are  goin'  to  marry  her,  too.  in  a  fortnight 
in  the  most  honorable  manner.  I've  seen  a  good  many 
sharp  games  in  my  time,  and  met  a  good  many  sharp  cards^ 
but  if  ever  I  met  a  sharper,  or  see  a  sharper,  then  I'm  ever- 
lastin'ly  darned  !  But  others  is  sharp,  too,  and  Joe  Daggit's 
one  of 'em,  though  he  says  it  as  hadn't  ought  to.  And  I've 
got  you,  my  buck,  and  I  mean  to  keep  you,  and  I've  got  the 
five  thousand  reward,  and  I  mean  to  keep  that  !  And  we'll 
send  you  up  for  half  a  dozen  of  years  at  hard  labor,  by  the 
living  Lord  !  " 

^^  ^^  ^^  ^*  •i*  •I*  ^v 

As  Mr.  Ernest  Dane  Fanshawe  passes  with  Detective 
Daggit  on  this  moonlight  night  forever  from  this  story,  it 
may  be  mentioned  here  that  Mr.  Daggit  was  among  the  pro- 
phets, and  that  at  this  moment  Mr.  Fanshawe,  the  elegant, 
the  languid,  the  handsome,  the  super-refined,  is  doing  the 
State  some  service  in  the  pleasant  rural  village  of  Sing  Sing. 
No  doubt  you  read  the  trial — it  produced  a  great  sensation, 
and  is  still  fresh  in  your  memory.  The  reason  of  Mr.  Dane's 
change  of  name  came  out  with  many  other  interesting  items 
of  that  gentleman's  dashing  career.     It  was  the  name  of  a 


SHADDECK  LlG/iT. 


391 


maternal  grandparent,  who  had  left  him  the  legacy  which 
took  him  to  Europe,  and  he  had  assumed  it  simply  to  escape 
disagreeable  duns.  He  has  learned  a  useful  trade— shoe- 
making,  it  is  understood— and  has  had  the  widespread  sym- 
pathy of  all  the  young  ladies  in  the  country.  He  was  so 
handsome,  poor  fellow,  and  so  interesting,  and  it  was  such  a 
pity  to  sentence  him  for  six  years'  imprisonment  to  hard  labor 
for  simply  taking  his  own  wife's  jewels. 

******* 

For  Eleanor.  Well,  there  are  'iimply  some  things  that 
cannot  be  told,  some  griefs  that  mere  words  are  powerless 
to  paint.  So  far  as  this  world's  ho[)es  are  concerned,  her  life 
came  to  an  end  in  the  hour  when  Richard  Ffrench,  unutter- 
ably distressed,  broke  to  her  the  news.  But  she  will  live  and 
go  or  with  her  life-work,  bravely,  nobly,  to  the  end,  the  true 
woman  Heaven  has  made  her,  with  steadfast  eyes  fixed  on 
that  ot.  ^r  world,  "the  world  that  sets  this  right." 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


SHADDECK     LIGHT. 

GUSTY  November  day.  Dead  leaves  swirl  in  wild 
brown  drifts  through  the  streets  of  St.  Ann's  be- 
fore the  wind,  a  wind  that  bufifets,  and  tosses,  and 
shouts  like  the  lusty  young  giant  it  is,  that  wrenches  and 
twists  the  tree-tops,  that  rattles  the  sundry  vine-stalks  which 
a  few  months  ago  hung  heavy  with  great  drooping  clus- 
ters of  roses,  that  flings  dust  by  the  handful  into  the  eyes 
of  the  unwary,  and  then  whooping  in  gusty  glee,  tlics  off 
to  Shaddeck  Bay. 

It  is  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  when  Richard   Ffrench 


1 

■ill 

1  ■<, 


:  I  , 


i(:!\\m 


.lii, 


rliii  •• 

it 
If 


392 


SHADDECK  LIGHT. 


turns  out  of  the  great  elm  avenue  of  Charlton  Place,  and  pre- 
pares for  a  windy  walk  to  town.  He  only  came  yesterday 
and  departs  again  this  evening.  His  work  is  done,  his 
name  is  cleared,  the  real  culprit  lies  in  prison — Fate  itself 
cannot  hold  him  and  his  wife  apart  longer.  Never  has 
debonair  Captain  Dick,  in  the  brightest,  most  spirited,  most 
sanguine  days  of  his  youth,  looked  more  hopeful,  more  buoy- 
antly happy  than  does  the  ex-cavalry  colonel  to-day.  He 
is  going  for  Vera ;  no  misunderstanding,  no  foolish  scrui)le 
shall  keep  them  asunder  longer.  She  has  all  the  pride  of 
— a  fallen  angel  where  he  is  concerned,  but  love  shall  tri- 
umi)h  over  pride,  and  in  his  heart  he  knows  as  well  as  he 
lives  that  Vera  cares  for  him  yet.  So — free,  cleared,  trium- 
phant, rich,  loving,  hopeful — he  gets  over  the  ground  at  his 
usual  swinging  pace,  whistling  cheerily  as  he  goes,  "  My 
love  is  but  a  lassie  yet."  He  has  discovered  this  much  : 
when  Vera  left  Charlton  she  went  direct  to  her  old  friend, 
Mrs.  Trafton,  and  has  remained  with  her  ever  since.  Before 
this  time  to-morrow  he  will  be  at  Mrs.  Trafton's  door  to 
claim  his  own,  through  life  and  beyond  death  if  he  may. 

How  it  blows  !  and  how  the  great  stripped  trees  wrestle 
with  the  blast  in  a  fierce  embrace  !  He  bends  his  powerful 
figure  before  it,  as  it  comes  swooping  down  upon  him,  Hing- 
ing spiteful  siroccos  of  dust  in  his  eyes,  and  sending  the 
blood  bounding  through  every  strong  vein.  His  spirits,  al- 
ready high,  rise  higher  as  it  buffets  him.  It  is  like  strong 
wine,  this  exhilarating  autumn  gale,  with  the  saltncss  of  the 
sea,  the  fragrance  of  the  pine  woods  in  its  breath  at  once. 

The  tide  is  out,  as  he  turns  into  the  shore  road,  the  long 
black  bar  is  bare  thi.t  leads  to  Shaddeck  Light,  and  crossing 
it  he  sees  Daddy.  The  old  den  looks  battered,  wind-blown, 
weather-beaten  and  tumble-down.  He  has  half  a  mind  to 
cross  over,  and  take  a  look  at  it  before  he  goes — he  has  not 
been  ther^  for  many  a  year.  As  he  approaches  Daddy  espies 
hhii,  and  comes  to  a  halt. 


E?HaH5" 


SHADDECK  LIGHT. 


393 


"  Hallo  !  "  cheerily  says  Colonel  Ffrench. 

"  Hallo  !  "  Daddy  stolidly  returns ;  and  then  Dadrty  stands  on 
the  other  foot  and  eyes  his  master.  "  Yer  ain't  seen  her,  hev  yer  ? 
Yer  don't  know  she's  here,  do  yer  ?  "  he  vaguely  intjuires. 

"Seen  her?     What  her?" 

"Yer  didn't  hear  she'd  come  back,  did  yer  ?  Said  so  her- 
self. Told  me  not  to  tell  nuther.  A-goin'  back  in  the  keers 
to-night.     Come  to  take  a  look.     She's  thar  yet." 

Daddy  jerks  his  thumb  over  his  shoulder  in  the  direction 
of  the  ocean.  But  Colonel  Ffrench  begins  to  understand. 
His  dark  face  flushes  and  lights. 

"  Are  you  speaking  of  Miss  Vera  ?  "  he  asks. 

"Ah!"  says  Daddy,  nodding— "  her.  She's  thar  yit. 
Come  to  take  a  last  look  at  the  dear  old  place.  That's  what 
she  said.  Blessed  if  he  ain't  gone!"  says  Daddy,  as  his 
master  turns  from  him,  and  in  a  minute  is  crossing  the 
bar.  A  dim  perception  of  the  truth  stirs  vaguely  in  the  fog 
of  Daddy's  mind.  "  Blessed  if  he  ain't  goin'  ter  her  !  Blessed 
if  he  ain't  sweet  on  her  ! "  says  Daddy  to  himself,  as  he  lum- 
bers heavily  away. 

She  is  sitting  on  the  little  sea-wall,  her  fingers  locked  to- 
gether, her  hands  lying  listlessly  on  her  black  lap.  Her  long 
crape  vail  is  thrown  back  ;  the  clear  face  is  like  a  star  set  in 
jet.  The  great,  dark  eyes,  the  loveliest  the  wide  earth  holds, 
this  man  thinks,  have  all  the  sadness  of  farewell  in  their 
depths.  She  hears  his  footsteps,  and  turns  ;  then  rises  and 
stands,  pale,  startled,  surprised,  before  him.  But  a  light 
comes  into  her  eyes — the  quick  light  of  irrepressible  gladness 
and  welcome.     And  he  sees  it. 

"  Vera  !  "  he  exclaims,  and  holds  out  both  hands. 
"  Captain  Dick  !  "  she  answers,  and  gives  iiim  hers.  Tlie 
name,  the  look,  the  manner,  have  swept  away  six  long  years, 
and  it  is  the  Captain  Dick  of  Charlton  days,  her  hero,  that  is 
here.  It  is  but  for  an  instant ;  then  she  laughs  faintly,  and 
draws  away  her  hands. 
17* 


t^f^l"' 


394 


SHADDECK  LIGHT. 


!  t 


Ea»  • 


"  I  thought  for  a  moment  I  was  a  little  girl  again.  You 
looked  so  like  the  Captain  Dick  of  those  far-off  days. 
But  I  thought  you  were  in  New  York." 

"And  I  thought _)w/  were  in  New  York." 

He  seats  himself  beside  her,  on  the  stone  wall,  and  looks 
with  loving,  longing,  happy  eyes  into  her  half  shrinking  face. 

*'  1  was  in  New  York ;  I  have  been  ever  since  I  left " 

"  Why  did  you  I  jave  ?  "  he  breaks  in.  "  That  was  cruel, 
Vera.  I  went  back  early  next  morning,  full  of  all  I  had  to 
say,  all  one  heart  could  hold — and  you  were  gone  !" 

She  looks  away  from  him,  and  out  to  where  the  angry 
red  of  the  sunset  beams  through  gathering  clouds. 

"  It  was  best  I  should  go — it  was  inevitable,  and  Mrs. 
Trafton's  house  has  ever  been  a  second  home.  I  went  to 
her  in  my  trouble  and  my  loneliness,  and  she  was  good  to 
me,  better  than  I  can  say.  Colonel  Ffrench,  1  have  read  it  all 
— the  dreadful  truth,  that  vindicates  you,  and  condemns  that 
wretched  man.  And  I  hardly  think  it  surprised  me,  although 
it  was  a  profound  shock.  For  she  loved  him — oh  !  my  dear 
little  Dot  !  she  loved  him.  I  always  knew  him  to  be  weak 
and  wicked,  but  of  this  I  feel  sure — he  never  intended  to  go 
beyond  the  stealing  of  the  jewels — he  never  intended  to 
injure  //^r." 

"No,  he  came  to  steal,  not  to  murder.  If  she  had  only 
not  awakened.     But  why  should  you  ever  think  of  him  ?  " 

"  I  think  of  Eleanor,  poor,  noble,  great-hearted  Eleanor ! 
She  haunts  me  like  a  ghost.     Some  day  I  hope  to  see  her." 

"  I  have  ventured  to  promise  that  much  in  your  name,"  he 
says.     "  You  will  let  me  keep  my  word,  will  you  not  ?  " 

"I  shall  see  her,  certainly,"  Vera  answers.  "In  a  week 
or  two  I  start  with  Mrs.  Trafton  to  spend  the  winter  in  Flor- 
ida, and  we  shall  take  New  Orleans  on  our  way.  She  is  fall- 
ing into  a  decline,  Mrs.  Trafton,  and  has  been  ordered  South. 
I  go  with  her  as  companion.  That  is  why  I  am  here.  I  have 
conie  to  take  a  last  look  at  poor  Dora's  grave." 


^m 


SHADDECK  LIGHT. 


395 


"  And  you  think  I  will  let  you  go  ?  "  he  says.     "  Vera,  turn 
round,  look  at  me,  instead  of  the  sky  and  the  water,  and  tell 
me,  if  you  can,  how  long  this  is  to  go  on.      For  six  years 
you  have  been  my  wife,  in  name.     In  all  that  time  we  have 
been  held  apart,  by  my  own  act  in  the  first  years,  by  misunder- 
standings and  mutual  pride  in  these  last.     It  is  time  all  that 
should  end.     I  love  my  wife,  I  want  my  wife,  and  I  mean  to 
have  her.     No,"  as  she  flashes  upon  him  one  of  the  old  im- 
perious glances,  and  tries  to  free  her  hands,  "  I  am  not  to 
be  annihilated  even  by  the  fire  of  your  eyes,  my  Vera,  eyes 
I  have  thought  the  most  beautiful  on  earth,  the  truest,  the 
dearest,  ever  since  I  saw  them  first.     I  know  you  cared  for 
me  a  little  once ;  I  think  you  care  for  me  a  little  still ;  I 
know  that  I  love  you  with  all  the  strength  of  my  heart.     In 
my  trouble  you  came  to  me,  you  offered  to  stay  with  me,  to 
be  my  wife.    Vera,  I  claim  that  promise  now — I  claim  you. 
I  am  going  to  Cuba  in  a  week — not  to  rejoin  the  :iriny. 
I  have  done  with  that,  but  political  purposes,  all  the  same. 
Vera,  will  you  come  with  me  to  Cuba,  instead  of  to  I'lorida, 
with  Mrs.  Trafton  ?  " 

She  looks  up,  and  the  dark,  sweet  eyes  that  meet  his  are 
full  of  tears. 

"  I  will  go  with  you  to  the  end  of  the  world,"  she  answers. 

•I*  V  "p  'p  T»  l^  * 

There  has  been  a  hiatus  here,  you  understand.  The  wind 
shouts  as  if  in  derision  at  this  pair  of  lovers,  and  the  sea, 
daslung  higher  and  higher  over  the  rocks,  sends  its  flaky 
spray  in  their  faces. 

"And  it  is  not  from  any  sense  of  duty,  such  as  sent  you 
to  me  at  the  hotel,  but  because " 

"Because  I  love  you,"  says  Vera,  speaking  the  words  for 
the  first  time  in  her  life;  "because  I  have  loved  you  from 
the  very  first." 

«  41  ♦  *  He  iH  « 


396 


SHAD  DECK  LIGHT. 


M 


The  tide  is  rising  ;  if  this  ecstatic  pair  h'nger  much  longer, 
they  will  have  a  chance  to  jxass  the  night  tcte-d  tete  on  the 
sea-wall.  The  crimson  and  fiery  orange  of  the  strong  sunset 
is  i^aling  rapidly  before  grayness  of  coining  night  and  gather-' 
ing  storm.  The  wind  still  shrieks  about  them  like  a  wind 
gone  mad;  sea-gulls  whirl  and  whoop  startlingly  near;  the 
flashing  spray  leaps  higher  and  higher. 

"  The  tide  is  rising,"  he  says,  "  let  us  go.  If  we  sit  here 
longer  we  will  have  to  stay  here  till  morning,  and  one  night 
you  may  think  quite  enough  to  spend  at  Shaddeck  Light  ; 
although  I  shall  look  back  to  that  night  with  the  deepest 
gratitude,  for  to  it  I  owe  the  happiness  of  my  life." 

He  offers  his  hand  and  she  takes  it,  and  so,  clinging  to  it, 
passes  over  the  wet,  weedy,  slippery  kelp  and  shingle  to  the 
shore.  I'here,  as  by  one  impulse,  both  pause  and  look  back, 
liefore  them  lies  the  new  life,  behind,  the  old,  and  they  linger 
for  a  second  to  bid  it  farewell. 

One  last  yellow  gleam  of  sunset  breaks  from  behind  the 
wind-blown  clouds  and  lights  palely  the  solitary  little  brown 
cot.  Falling  fast  to  decay,  with  broken  windows,  hanging 
doors,  settling  roof,  it  stands  waiting  for  its  death-blow,  in 
forsaken  and  bleak  old  age — a  desolate  picture.  While  they 
look  the  light  fades,  swift  darkne^j  falls,  and  night  and  lone- 
liness wrap  Shaddeck  Light. 


THE   END. 


..  % 


